Ctrl-F5
by syviki
Summary: In another story, where Murasaki's number one at Facultas, Art receives help on a case from a man with brown hair and three bandages — a man said to work with Mao. (Some meetings are made, some never occur. Moments change and dominoes fall.) / Canon-AU, very eventual Nice/Art.
1. 01

_hiii, thanks for clicking through! c:_  
_Apologies in advance as only about 70% of this fic is properly researched; priority is to just get it finished, overall fixes and improvements will happen after. Still, please don't hesitate to report weird things!_

_cross-post links (if you want them) can be found on my profile._

* * *

Every day, at 5 PM, Security begins making its first evening rounds within Yokohama's Police Department. The rounds are like clockwork; they begin exactly on time, follow random routes exactly generated the minute before by an algorithm drawing numbers from a server that uses the true randomness of atomic decay, and Art knows that – once the second hand passes twelve – there is an hour's window in which a guard will peer through his open doorway, perhaps stop and greet him, before heading off again.

Art doesn't expect the knock on his door at 5:38 PM. The only people who knocked on Superintendent Art's open door were those in their first two weeks. Their newest recruit was already well past four.

"Come in," he calls, there's a few soft footfalls – by the time Art looks up, they're already in front of him.

His visitor is a man in a jumpsuit that was once blue, though any blues that remained were now washed to pale gray. There's a smile on his face, under a hat and fuzzy brown hair. A brown cardboard box the size of a toaster is tucked in one arm, and a clipboard held in the other.

"Delivery," says the stranger.

Art realises he's staring at the three very distinctive bandages on the person's face and blinks when the parcel is placed before him.

"Strange," says Art. "I'm not expecting anything."

The shrug he receives only draws his attention to the cord of an earphone snaking up beneath the jumpsuit and tugging at the stranger's ear. There aren't any logos on the clothing, nor are there any stickers of any sort on the parcel. It's completely plain.

The glint of a watch on the stranger's left wrist is tucked into memory. Art assesses with one glance. His expression doesn't change.

"How did you get in here?" asks Art.

The stranger's smile shifts. Like he knows just as well as Art does that any and all deliveries are handled internally after being dropped off at the front desk, and like the stranger can see through solid wood to where Art is slowly feeling for the alarm beneath the table.

Art's question is ignored.

"The serial bomber you've been hunting left something behind yesterday," says the stranger. He turns to the door, pulls his hat down, and tilts his head in such a way that mysterious blue eyes demand all attention. "I'll be back next week for my tip. Enjoy your evidence, Superintendent."

The stranger is already out the door when Art presses the alarm. By the time Art reaches the doorway, arms locked in position for the pistol in his hands, they're already gone.

* * *

"So he knew," says Gasquet, hawk eye narrowing sharply as if it could hone in on its prey.

Art nodded. "About the serial bomber, yes. Even though nobody outside our team should know about yesterday."

It's only the two of them outside one of the underground rooms, and the hour hand on their watches are creeping ever closer to the ten. Both men would have been home by now, resting; yesterday, after weeks of relentless investigation, they'd miraculously had a breakthrough in cracking the serial bomber's plans. Relief at finding the bomb before it detonated had quickly transformed into panic at the hyper-sensitive light and shock sensors, a countdown timer counting hours as if they were seconds and a bomb squad stationed too far away.

It was only because of Art's custom night vision goggles, Gasquet's trusty Swiss blades, the fact that Art was barely able to fit beneath the vehicle and the systematic instructions in his ear that no new lives had been taken.

The team had congratulated Art for resourcefulness and foresight. Art had smiled, didn't mention that he always carried the goggles on him. Made notes in the corner of his brain to study bomb disarmament too some time in the future.

If he'd known, he wouldn't have needed to send the stranger's package to the team assigned on standby, to make sure it was safe before opening.

Gasquet _hmms_.

"Three bandages, you say?"

"Male," says Art, like he's reciting. "Fair, slightly tanned. Height approximately 180cm. Brown hair, blue eyes. Distinctive features: a bandage on either cheek and another across his nose. Likely right-handed—"

"—because he's got a watch on his left wrist. Right," says Gasquet. "Keep thinking. Do you remember anything else, maybe a Minimum?"

Art's already formed his reply of _No, I wish I did_, as the question is predictable. After all, the two of them haven't been talking about much else for the past few hours when the only thing on their minds is bringing the serial bomber to justice, especially after the delivery of evidence implied to be more than tossed crumbs.

"He has to be a Minimum Holder," says Art instead, knowing well he's repeating a topic they'd talked about around an hour ago – but somehow hoping they'll get someplace this time. "The corridor is straight for dozens of metres on both sides and there is no way an ordinary human would vanish so quickly."

"S'not invisibility or sight-distortion. Thermal scans were negative and all exits were locked instantly on the alarm."

"Except the windows."

"The cameras outside saw no-one leave."

"Then instant movement." Art gestures to the blurry figure in the single freeze-frame they'd found whilst combing the feeds, from one of the corridors on the path to his office. They'd found it two hours ago.

Gasquet shrugs – and for some reason, Art stares. There's something about the slight roll of the head, the slight tilt of the shoulders, and the movement of the mouth and brow that reminds him of—

The sudden intensity in Art's gaze doesn't go unnoticed.

"You onto something?" says Gasquet.

Art tries not to blink, in case he'd miss it once more. "Do that again."

Gasquet does. This time there's an extra hint of _laissez-faire_, a special laxness that comes with releasing the reins and letting the creature of chance choose its own course. Art doesn't see anything again until he blinks, involuntarily, and when his eyes open there's an after-image of shadow directly beneath Gasquet's right ear—

"Earphones."

"Voice?" prompts Gasquet, without pause. "Music? Radio?"

Art shakes his head. "I couldn't hear anything. But he wore a single earphone from under his clothes and up to his right ear. Black, probably to be hidden by his hair."

"Three bandages," mutters Gasquet. "Brown hair, blue eyes. An earphone…"

Whatever else he may have wanted to say is cut off by the door opening beside them. A technician steps out. There's a strange lump of purple on her lab coat.

"All clear, sirs," she says. They exchange pleasantries; Sorry for the wait. It's no problem. Better to be safe.

Art enters the room behind her, Gasquet half a pace behind. The parcel sits alone atop an empty table to the side; it's closed as if it were never opened, though the tape keeping it shut has been sliced apart by a sharp blade. The rest of the room is busy as equipment is cleared up and put away.

They reach the parcel. Art glances at Gasquet, who nods, and soon the lid is prised open.

The box is empty save for two things.

Art points at the mess of purple gloop sitting in a plastic container, which is in turn atop a crude catapult-like device from which hangs an elastic string. "What… is that?"

"…Jelly," replies the technician. "Grape flavouring."

Art blinks once. Twice. Realises with no small confusion that the purple substance, the _grape jelly_, is the root cause of the hours-long delay. No doubt they would have had to test it thoroughly for any suspicious or organic materials.

Whilst pulling on a pair of gloves, Gasquet huffs a few private chuckles.

"Besides that smooth jelly," says Gasquet, reaching down and picking up the second item by its lanyard, "we have this."

The stopwatch spins, reflecting the light. One rotation, two rotation, three rotations, four.

That's when Art sees them.

"Fingerprints," he breathes.

Tomorrow, if the stopwatch checked out as legitimate, when they received the fingerprint data and matched it against all the other evidence they had in their possession, the case would be as good as done.

* * *

The lobby of the Yokohama Police Department is empty so late at night, save the few guards on security. Art and Gasquet nod at them respectfully when they step out of the lifts and onto the ground floor.

"The winds are in our favour," says Gasquet, suddenly. Neither had spoken since handing out thanks for the technicians' work.

Art glances across. "Mr. Gasquet?"

"Have you paid him yet? For the delivery?"

"I meet him next week…" A spark; Art feels the chase after answers nearing its end, and his index finger curls in anticipation. "You know who he is, Mr. Gasquet?"

Gasquet nods. "You know the broker Mao?"

"You've mentioned, yes. That's him?"

"No – he's the guy who started working with him. Some say two, some say five years ago."

"As a… team?"

"Apparently so. Mao is the best – so good, he has to be a Holder. To hear he's working with someone else… well, you can imagine."

(_Art couldn't._)

"Who is he, then?" asks Art, because he's only ever met the stranger, so that's all he really knows about this supposed duo – the stranger who'd appeared, handed over a parcel with potentially critical evidence, and even included a small prank should he have opened it immediately.

The mysterious stranger with three bandages, a gaze of sharpest blue, and who knew the food Art liked to eat but hadn't bought since the serial bombing case began.

Gasquet shrugs, so much like the stranger again that Art sees two in his partner's shadow.

"They call him Feng, the Wind." is the reply. "There one minute – the next, gone."

* * *

**01: the wind rises**

**/TBC/**


	2. 02

_Thanks go to naite [naitenaitenaitenaite at tumblr] for being awesome and dealing with my stupidity._

* * *

"I'm home."

There's a clang, and then a head appears in the doorway leading to the kitchen. "Welcome back!"

Nice, apron around his waist and normally unruly hair held back by both bright headphones and a clamp behind his head, grins at Hajime as she passes by. He's ignored; Hajime shuffles to the windows on the opposite end of the apartment and tugs the shutters open. She gives the news channel playing on the TV a lazy glance, then walks over to place her gloves atop the armrest of the single lounge chair in the corner with intent on reserving it as hers.

A pot whistles. Nice goes back to the small stove, removes the lid of the pot, and peers inside.

Hajime's presence joins him. Nice senses how the sound waves from her steps interacts with the music in his ears. She's chosen the red fox slippers today.

"You're later than usual," he says, giving the pot a stir. "How'd it go?"

Hajime sniffs. "You burnt the bottom of the curry again."

* * *

**02: what lies don't know**

* * *

Two bowls sit at the low table, atop plastic placemats adorned with yellow tiger designs. Once, they each held white rice and a generous helping of curry.

Now, not a single grain of rice remains. Save the golden track-marks left behind from spoons scraping sauce off the sides, they're both absolutely empty.

"Okay," says Hajime.

[ _Okay…? _]

Nice deadpans. "I spend ages working on this, it's not entirely black, and all you have to say is just 'okay'? No 'thanks for the meal' or _anything?_"

"You burnt the curry," is the reply, like it's an explanation.

"It's _not_ an explanation!"

Nice tries to put on his headphones, but his fingers get caught in the clamp still in his hair.

[ _Attempt unsuccessful. Plan B: Start. _]

The clamp is yanked off ungratefully, then thrown. Hajime tilts to the side; it soars past her head, hits the wall across the room, bounces off, and lands wedged behind the stand below the TV.

"I'm not helping you get that." Hajime rises to her feet. "Thanks for the meal."

[ _Do you wish to resign? ( Y / N )_ ]

[_ … _]

Wordlessly, Nice pushes his bowl aside and rests the side of his head atop the table. He's still able to see Hajime take a few steps to the side and watches her stretch after the meal. The late-afternoon sun filters light through the shutters beside her, illuminating her clothes and skin in a staggered, golden glow.

Nice stares at the scar on the back of her leg. Nearly twenty centimetres of ridges carve shadows into her left shin.

Minutes pass where only the TV speaks in the background, but neither of them are listening.

"How was it?" says Nice.

Hajime rolls her shoulders. Shrugs.

"Alright." She reaches for her pocket for a folded piece of paper. "I got the agreement from her."

[ _'Her': The landlord._ ]

"She hasn't noticed that the rent in this area will rise around next week?"

Hajime gives him a look. It says, _remember who you are._

Nice opens his mouth, changes his mind, then closes it again. He opens the receipt and skims through the details.

"That's our next three months covered, then," he muses. "Good thing we don't have any loans…"

There's no reply. Hajime acts like she hasn't heard him and takes a seat on the lounge. At that moment, a sudden burst of colour on the TV's screen draws their attention.

_Snap._ The world warps: Nice _moves_; he's activated his Minimum to reach the remote beside her and turned the volume up instantly.

"—_Breaking news,_" says the newscaster. "_Yokohama police have arrested a suspect they believe is responsible for the serial bombings that began six weeks ago and has since taken countless lives. This comes as a result of an anonymous tip sent to the force the day before yesterday. A spokesperson for the police has said that_—"

The screen shows footage of a broad-shouldered person being hustled into a police car, face buried in a jacket to avoid being seen. In the background, one of Yokohama Chinatown's great_paifang_ gates is blocked off by a line of police; between it and the car, a young man with white-lavender hair is talking to another officer on the scene.

Hajime doesn't miss the way Nice's eyes soften and his smile creeps wider. Nor how Nice doesn't stop looking at the man.

[ _You…_ ]

"Well," says Nice, after the screen changes, "I'm suppose I'm off, then."

Hajime doesn't respond. Nice doesn't wait for an answer, collecting the dishes and hopping to the kitchen. The bowls and spoons clatter as they land in the sink. Water rushes for them to soak; it's switched off some seconds later, and then Nice emerges – apronless – to swap his headphones for a pair of non-descript earphones instead.

"I tried making _onigiri_ today, they're in the fridge if you get hungry," says Nice. He's pulling on his shoes, grabs his keys. "Thanks for everything, Hajime. Be back later!"

_Snap_; he's gone. The front door closes behind his shadow.

Hajime turns the TV off and pulls her knees to her chest. She tries to quash the quivering in her stomach, nervousness that had begun ever since Nice had laid eyes on the charming Superintendent Art moments ago.

[ _Nice, I… _]

Her stomach snarls.

"Don't thank me, Nice," she mutters to herself, then pauses. "…If I eat your onigiri, I might die."

* * *

It feels like there are media personnel on every inch of the sidewalk. Reporters, photographers, cameramen with an unblinking third fish's eye, and boom operators with a second head hanging off a neck attached to their arms. Among others Art could not pick out of the crowd in order to name.

"This's turned into a circus."

Art ignores the media with the ease that comes with practice, inclined to agree. He makes a note to investigate if they have a source in the police department; such a turnout is abnormal.

He glances toward Gasquet approaching him from afar. "It does resemble it a bit, doesn't it?"

"Hardly. I'd say it's _more_ than 'a bit'." Gasquet swaps the eye he keeps closed so that he can look at Art directly. "How is the search going?"

"Negative. Looks like the area's safe and clean. The last of the bomb squad should be retreating now – we can get these roads unblocked and the city moving again."

Art has some amount of regret for the financial cost of evacuating such a dense area, especially since they're outside of Yokohama Chinatown. Hopefully there's no lasting damage done to its reputation. Better to be safe than sorry.

Or so he tells himself, anyway, and will tell the press conference being held later.

It's the best decision to take (_for a person with no Minimum_).

The media are leaving now. Equipment's being swallowed by the trunks of cars or sealed within the backs of vans. There are a few people still remaining, lurking, closing up their stories or searching for anything left to do.

"Mr. Gasquet?" asks Art, once he's certain that there is nothing left for him to oversee. Already, the public are slowly returning to their everyday lives, trickling back into the area.

"Hm?"

"This Feng… how would I find him?"

It almost looks like Gasquet tenses. By the time Art turns so he can see the older man directly instead of out the corner of his eye, it's gone. Art chalks the action to the movement of the last police car having driven past his partner on its way to the station.

His imagination must have combined the two.

"No clue," says Gasquet. "He's like a shadow. Maybe you could try asking Mao."

"Mao?"

"Brown hair, average build, oriental features. Wears a pair of small, dark spectacles. He's usually dressed in dark green Chinese-cut clothes and probably eating."

Art begins searching on reflex, not entirely sure why, and immediately spots a person beneath the paifang gate leading into Chinatown – a person that happens to match Gasquet's description exactly.

"…like him?"

Gasquet pauses mid-stride.

"That's him."

Mao, chewing consideringly on a bun, is watching them so intently that Art wonders how they didn't notice him before. No; upon second glance, his stare is entirely for Gasquet.

When Gasquet starts walking toward him, Mao turns the corner and disappears deep into Chinatown. Art follows despite having lost sight of the man the instant he joined the crowds; fortunately, Gasquet knows where he's going, so it's some several turns later through streets surrounded with red and gold that the two end up facing Mao again.

This time, they're on two sides of a vendor's food cart. And, unlike a normal vendor, Mao isn't smiling.

"Here you are, Art," says Gasquet. He turns to Mao. "I'd like a steamed bun, please."

Mao lifts the lid of the steamer beside him. Two buns are inside.

"That will be—"

He's cut off by the roll of notes presented to him. Most are covered by Gasquet's hand to prevent people in the street from seeing. Except Art, who can read the denomination of the outermost note because of where he stands.

Ten thousand yen.

"I have an outstanding fee," says Gasquet. "Please, keep the change."

Mao stares at Gasquet, even as the steamer continues puffing precious warm air outside its confines. Finally, he takes the money and performs the trade. Art wonders what the fee had been for, then dismisses the thought instantly. Gasquet's business is nothing he needs to know.

The farewell exchanged between them when Gasquet excuses himself is brisk. As soon as the man leaves, Art doesn't expect it when a steamed bun is suddenly held toward him.

There's a piece of paper hidden under the bun. Mao's eyes glitter, hinting to knowledge unknown.

"And one for you, sir?"

Art pauses for a moment, then reaches inside his jacket for his wallet. Somehow he knows it's information that won't be worth coins. "How much?"

"Don't worry about the cost," is the reply. "Especially not after that. Please, take it, it's rightfully yours."

Only for a second, there's hesitation. Art takes it anyway.

"Thank you very much," says Art.

Mao inclines his head. There's a faint hint of a secret smile. "I look forward to meeting you again."

* * *

There's only one line of text in the note: the address to his apartment, and a time.

_4:17 PM._

Art glances at his watch as he waits for the elevator to return to the ground floor. The minute hand is past the seven; it's nearing five. He's half-contemplating if he should take the stairs when the elevator's doors open, beckoning entry in sheepish apology.

When he finally reaches his apartment, nobody is there.

Art isn't sure if the sense of unease in the back of his head is because he'd been expecting someone (_Feng_) or if it were because of something else–

–That is, not until his instincts scream _DOWN! _— and he narrowly avoids death by a blade.

Art doesn't pause to look up; he instantly follows through with a roll to create distance, and by the time he's risen to his feet his pistol is already in his hands and his thumb is against the safety. Only then does he take a look at his assailant: a woman whose features are hidden by a ski mask, descending from the air vent and holding a knife raised to her lip.

No; on second glance, there's no cable. She's descending upon her own power. Art looks at the knife again, and realises it's a silver letter opener.

She smiles, bites down on the edge of the letter opener, then throws it at him. It flies with frightening accuracy, the air in the hallway _shivers_ as if to propel it along, and then the Minimum guided projectile crashes into Art's pistol faster than he can blink. The shock of the collision force Art's elbows to unlock and drives the pistol flying backwards and upwards.

Art is only barely able to keep his grip, and stumbles half a step backwards from the excess energy. A closer look at the firearm reveals the letter opener had wedged itself tightly down the length of the barrel; silver exits plastic polymer directly before the chamber. The handle protrudes from the end of the muzzle.

Both damaged and blocked, the pistol would be dangerous to fire.

"Took you long enough to come home, Mr. Superintendent," says the woman. A second letter opener spins above an open palm. "Now _die!_"

* * *

**/TBC/**


	3. 03

Art is no stranger to death threats, and he never will be.

As the only student to graduate from Facultas with no Minimum, as the youngest Superintendent in Yokohama's history due to his graduation, and as head of the police force for one of the biggest cities in Japan—he's faced at least one death threat a year for at least a decade.

But with his pistol disabled by an attack from a masked woman capable of firing long-range projectiles in the time it takes to blink, the Minimum Holder twirling the silver letter opener may have a real chance at carrying out his murder.

The hallways are shaped like an L, the exits only on one branch. Art had been past the point where both branches connect when he'd been forced to dodge; now he's trapped in the other end.

With the woman standing in the corner and nothing but smooth walls and apartment doors behind him, he's a single target down a straight shooting range to be fired upon at leisure.

This time, when the woman bites the silver, Art sees the snaggletooth scraping along the blade. Her trigger. It's only from years of living in a world where everybody has a Minimum and Art alone makes up the minority, that he can concentrate and _focus_ on how activations affect the very matter of the universe: the pulsing exchange renders as bright light and colour in the back of his eyes; the thresholds of _this is possible_ and _this is not_ interleave, painting a picture of their own reality.

_The Minimum Factor_.

Art tosses his useless pistol away. He concentrates on the patterns of colour to determine the optimum timing.

By the time the letter opener is thrown, Art is already moving.

The blade will reach him in one second; fall aside in half, let it pass – follow through. He has a flashbang in his pocket, a stun grenade that lets off a burst of bright light and loud sound for disorientation. Extremely effective in small, enclosed spaces, such as rooms and hallways. If he uses it in such close proximity he'll be caught in its effects, but all he needs is an opportunity to get close and disable her from taking any action. Any damage inflicted to him in the process would be negligible compared to the alternative.

Art doesn't get a chance to use it when the woman is suddenly kicked aside by a blur. At the same time, the door to the apartment beside her opens –

"Hey—"

_Art's apartment._

– and then there's a flash of brown, a loud yelp when the person in the doorway collides into the woman who'd been trying to take Art's life –

And all is still.

Art stares at Feng, the woman lying atop him, and the young girl in a blue hooded jacket with one foot atop the pile of bodies in the doorway. Like it's all a divine joke, and it's up to Art to deliver the punchline.

The thought is gone as quickly as it arrives. Art's professionalism returns, and he reaches in his pocket for the flashbang because the threat isn't over. Only changed.

The girl moves _fast_. And if his previous disappearance is any indication, Feng does too. If worst comes to worst, and Feng's also an enemy, taking both down will not be easy. But, Feng's trapped beneath a body (_for now_) and the girl, a red glove on either hand and heavy boots on her feet, looked (_looked_) to be purely limited within close-range—

It's lazily when the girl steps aside and turns her arms out to signify disinterest in further aggression.

"Not hungry," she mumbles, barely audible.

Art makes a choice. He approaches.

His assailant is unconscious. Art handcuffs her as a precaution nonetheless. The next thing would be to call the police, take measures so that she wouldn't be able to open her mouth – and thus activate her Minimum – if she were to come to, and to frisk her for any dangerous possessions whilst he waited for backup to arrive.

"_Aauugh_," mutters Feng, after Art terminates his phone call. "Ow ow ow ow… _ow._"

Art looks down on him.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I'm Nice."

Feng's grin suggests he's just told the funniest joke in the world. Art's not so impressed. He searches his pocket for the slip of paper Mao had given him. It's unfolded, then shown to the other man.

"Do you have any knowledge of this, Feng?"

"No, really, I'm Nice," is the reply. "Call me Nice. That's my name."

_Nice._

Art pauses. "…Facultas?"

There's an edge beneath those stupid bandages and laughing eyes that Art wonders about. The name doesn't quite suit him.

"Why not?" A non-answer.

(_Then again, 'Art' never really suited himself either._)

"Could you answer me?" says Art. "Why does this say a time and a location that would have led to my death?"

The smile on Nice's face evaporates.

"You must have asked him where I was," says Nice. "While it's true I thought I'd be here at 4:17, that was only my projected time of arrival. Actually, I got here at 4:21, because the lights next to the Sweets&Treats Bakery are malfunctioning—"

Plastic crinkles out of sight. Art's eyes flash as if they could see behind him without his head needing to move. He shouldn't look away from a suspect, but Nice is being so – well, _nice_ – that Art hesitates.

Nice stares up at him and maintains their gaze.

"…I heard about her when I was investigating, so I came to stop her before she could get you," he says. "Harm to you is the last thing I have in mind."

"Too salty."

The comment comes from nowhere; both Nice and Art blink in unison, then turn toward the girl. She's chewing consideringly on an onigiri buried within plastic wrap, the rest of which forms a waterfall spilling over the rest of her fingers, and she's staring at Nice as if he's some sort of bug that requires squishing.

"_Hajiiimeeee,_" says Nice, "onigiri are _better_ with salt."

The girl, Hajime, swallows and takes another bite as if expecting the second would taste different from the first.

"…Too salty."

Art doesn't smile at the exchange, but his eyes do soften alongside a faint upturning of his mouth. Nice speaks with such sincerity that he had to be telling the truth – or be a brilliant liar. Either way, Art recognises the help he'd been given for the serial bombing case, and there's no reason to continue the stand-off any further.

Art slowly rolls the woman off Nice. It cements his decision.

"_Finally_," says Nice. He sits up and starts rubbing his back. "Hey, Art, what do you think?"

"…Pardon?"

"If onigiri is better with salt or not."

Before Art even has the chance to think about the question, a lock clatters behind them. Art pauses mid-frisk, knelt over the woman lying flat on the ground, and places the three letter openers he'd found to one side. He turns; his neighbour's door opens.

The Sato family's middle son tentatively peers into the hallway.

Art has always made an effort to introduce himself to his neighbours, learn about who they were, what they did, and remain on good terms. He's about to apologise for the commotion, but Sato pales before he can. The door shakes like he's fighting to keep it open.

"Aa," says the girl, Hajime. She's glancing at Sato from the corner of her eye; then, like a puppet with body parts suspended by strings, she swivels around. "There he is. Time to go to work."

Hajime walks the ten-or-so steps to Sato's door. Sato, so tall he nearly brushes the doorframe, whom Art knows as a respectable man that's recently been made head of a small family business down the road, cowers every time she moves closer.

"P-p-please don't—don't make a fuss," says Sato.

His eyes flicker nervously up and down the hallway, hovering on Nice and lingering on Art.

Hajime stops in front of the door and takes another bite from the onigiri. "You have one minute."

"Please! Just one more week – the bakery is doing well, now. I'll have it—all of it—" Sato glances at Art again, then makes gesturing motions to Hajime, "—by next week."

"…Thirty seconds."

"I— I can give you half. Just… don't make a fuss about it."

"Ten seconds." Hajime paused, then sniffed the air. "Pastry…?"

Sato blinks. "Yes? Ah, that is to say – yes, I'm making some now. Practicing. Is there something…"

"…President Okura said half is acceptable. Give me your pastry… I won't leave anything today."

Relief spreads from wide eyes to an unconscious smile. Sato bows readily, calls "_Thank you very much!_", then rushes inside.

Art knows the Sato's middle son as a respectable man, recently been made head of their small family business, the Sweets&Treats Bakery.

—After the eldest son committed suicide, having lived a life of bad habits, too burdened by countless loans.

It had been pure chance that Art had discovered the scene and developed a personal interest in the case. It's also the reason the Sato family had discovered directly that their neighbour Art is not just an officer but the Superintendent himself – as opposed to just hearing of him from rumour or the media. The nervous glances make sense now: to be shamed about an active debt is hard enough for the Japanese, but to be shamed in front of the Superintendent?

Art can't imagine.

(It's strange to think such a young girl works for a loan shark, one ruthless enough to threaten the family of the deceased, of the type Art thought was phased out years ago.)

"Man, that Hajime," mutters Nice. "Always so easily bribed."

Hajime finishes the onigiri and wipes her mouth with her fingers. "Be less salty. Oh – pastry's here."

When Sato returns a second later, Art turns away to give them some modicum of privacy and returns to what he'd been doing. Another letter opener is confiscated from his assailant's ankle. It's not real privacy, but Art can only hope it helps.

Once the frisk is finished, Art's about to retrieve some tape when a roll is suddenly thrust in front of him. He looks up at Nice, who's smiling; from his position, Art finally notices the bright sneakers and the jacket vest the man is wearing, colours so vibrant compared to the pale blue jumpsuit he'd worn before.

Art looks back down. He pulls the ski mask is off his assailant's head, freeing youthful features and short red hair. A strip of tape ensures she can't use her Minimum.

Art returns to his feet. He knows her.

Something nudges his arm.

"Here," says Hajime, around a custard pastry in her mouth. One hand is carrying a paper bag. The other holds out the pistol Art had discarded earlier.

Art takes it – it's a little difficult to figure out how to hold, when the slide is damaged by the letter opener still wedged tight and the grip is sticky with sugar. He makes sure the safety is on.

"Thank you," says Art.

Hajime leaves without acknowledgement, and then she's gone. Sato, who had quietly been watching her leave, promptly bows toward Art and Nice before slamming the door shut with a bit more force than necessary.

"…Chinen Ayami."

Art looks at Nice, who'd spoken as soon as the tumblers in Sato's lock fall into position. "You know her?"

Nice nudges the woman's shoulder with the toe of his shoe.

"As much as you," he says. "Investigation only. Perhaps a little more. She's the fiancée of Tachikawa Kenta – or, as you know him, Yokohama's very-recently arrested serial bomber."

"Nothing we had suggested she was a Minimum Holder," says Art.

"Not _only_ a Minimum Holder," is the reply. "Her Minimum exactly matches Green's. Isn't it funny? Two Metal-Force Minimums in the same city… if Green hadn't been killed two months ago as part of _that string_. So now there's only one."

Green – a student who'd graduated from Facultas the year before Art. Art had spent more time at the crime scene than he'd ever spent around Green whilst the other was still alive. The remains had borne all the hallmarks of the Minimum Holder serial killer, still unsolved.

Missing brain. Demeaning circumstances. Unnecessarily bloody.

No leads.

"You shouldn't know about that," says Art.

"Give us more credit. Mao is amazing."

Nice starts playing with the roll of tape he still holds. Art looks into his apartment; he knows, without asking, that it's the tape he keeps atop his side table.

"I suppose he told you and her where I live too, then," says Art.

"Me, yes. But…" The tape stills. Nice's expression turns thoughtful. "She knew it was going to happen. Yesterday."

"What was?"

"Tachikawa's arrest," says Nice. "It was yesterday when she'd decided to come here and kill you, though you'd think the more rational decision would be to try and save him. There are no police connections in her background to explain how she knew about the arrest or where you lived—which reminds me," he adds, quickly, "lock your windows. Always. It's a pretty careless habit you have there, Superintendent."

Art makes a note to do so. "How many information brokers are in this city?"

"Several. Most just run consumer data mining," is the reply. "I'd wager only two know where you live, at this current time – myself and Mao. And I know for a fact that Mao didn't do it."

"You have very high confidence in him."

"Mao won't say anything that could kill you."

_A sincere smile beneath blue eyes._ _"Harm to you is the last thing I have in mind."_

The knowledge is filed away into the corner of Art's brain. Along with a possible conclusion that Mao's generosity had purely been upon Nice's request rather than a decision of his own choosing.

"I'm being asked to check my people, then?" Art says instead.

"Do what you'd like," says Nice. "It was fun meeting you, but I have work to get back to. Otherwise, Mao will eat all the fried cutlet sandwiches and then Hajime will complain I didn't bring any back."

Art's reminded of the roll of notes Gasquet had given Mao, and the man asking if Art had paid.

"Thank you for all your assistance," says Art. "How may I return the favour?"

Nice shrugs. "Save it. I'm not gonna hold debts above the head of someone who constantly puts themselves on the line for everyone else. Although…" Nice pauses, adjusting his earphones. "You're thinking of investigating President Okura's business, aren't you? If you could put that off, it'd be great. Mao's nice but stingy as _hell_ and Hajime's really our only source of income."

"There are other occupations—"

"Not for two kids who quit Facultas."

Art doesn't reply at first, silently considering all the information he's learnt. For someone who's an information broker, Nice is being loose with his words; at this point, not saying anything would be more valuable than any money he could give them in return.

"After the serial murderer case, I make no promises," says Art.

Nice laughs. He puts one hand in his pocket and tosses the tape aside. "I _knew_ you were interesting."

There's a loud _snap_, and Nice is gone before the roll of tape hits the floor.

* * *

Nice's escape is literally just in time, because as soon as he reaches the emergency stairs the police backup Art had called is already in the building. Nice'd said a little more than he'd thought he would, and left a little later, but he's still safe and alive and _hey!_ All his limbs are intact and he's still got both kidneys, so there's not too much of an issue.

When he switches his music back off and begins his descent down the building, he wonders if he should have told Art to check his windows again.

Whatever. Too late now.

Mao's waiting, of course. He's halfway through a sandwich when Nice arrives in the small, dimly-lit alley the majority of his business is conducted within, and doesn't say a word until Nice is bored of kicking up dust and leans against the wall beside him.

Nice didn't need to say anything because Mao already knows.

"His apartment is that bad?" It's a question, but from Mao's mouth it sounds more like a statement of fact.

Nice nods. Chinen Ayami should have been neutralised by the time Art arrived, with either a note left behind or Nice's presence there to explain why. That had been the plan.

Instead, as soon as Nice had entered through the window, he'd frozen from what he'd seen inside.

He knows that Art's been living in that apartment for the last three years. But in those three years, there's nothing personal in those rooms. No books, no television, nothing to hint to a life outside work; only a sparse bed, training equipment, and firearms heavily secured behind a handful of bolts and heavy doors. There's a single fishtank, filled with pebbles and sea shells, but it's empty. Any hope that Art at least had a pet had vanished instantly; it's never been filled with water. It's nothing more than a reflection of the apartment – Art's internal world.

Nice had concluded that Art would have dropped his guard should the man have returned home, so he couldn't let anyone inside. That's why he'd gone to the windows first, to make sure no-one could be waiting.

But Art had no personal effects, and Art hadn't cared.

Nice isn't quite sure what to make of the man that graduated from Facultas solely by iron will. The man who carries night vision goggles everywhere he walks, and is willing to destroy his own hearing with zero hesitation. A Superintendent at once so true in day-to-day affairs but, at the same time, willing to put common justice aside so Hajime could continue earning her pay.

He's obviously thinking too loud, as Mao's quick to hand him a sandwich without looking once in his direction.

"Don't fall too hard, little Nice," says Mao.

"Me?" Nice grabs the sandwich, and takes a bite despite having eaten lunch not long before. He's turning into both of the gluttons he loves. "_Please._ I'm not even falling."

* * *

**03: bitter, like the darkest coffee**

**/TBC/**


	4. 04

Over a year ago, Murasaki'd been in the shadows of a great stage.

"—the individual graduating with the highest grades in the history of Facultas Academy, Murasaki."

He walks into the light, followed by applause from people trapped in the dark. Standing on the stage is like being examined. The overhead lamps are too intense. His suit suddenly stifles him, jacket too tailored and tie too tight. He's choking. He's blind.

Murasaki smiles politely, accepts the certificate, presents it to the faceless and turns his back on Facultas's instructors sitting to the rear of the stage.

It's to the shadows he returns, not a minute later.

* * *

**04: le papillon du chaos**

* * *

Graduation from Facultas entails several things: the first, freedom from hellish training and brutal hours; the second, agreement to a strict, no-nonsense restriction upon the use of a person's Minimum in accordance with the Minimum Secrecy Act; and the third, the placement of oneself into some of the most successful companies in Japan.

Scouting and recruitment is a simple process. Companies send job positions to the Academy before every ceremony, occasionally mentioning the names of those they wish the request to go to, and the graduates are given a list from which to choose. Facultas's training has a core curriculum of strenuous physical activity, management, higher mathematics, legalities, psychology, philosophy, world history, communication at a business level in three natural and two computer languages—all supplemented by specialist education either best suited to the student's Minimum or of their choosing. All graduates have completed the equivalent of at least one formal university degree.

With such a system, there's no need for interviews or presentations to determine suitability.

Murasaki's the top student that year. He gets to pick first. There should be a certain apprehension accompanying the decision, since placement is done through back channels; graduation from a facility so secretive means second chances may not as well exist. Whatever he chooses will most likely be the job he retains for the rest of his life.

He can't bring himself to care.

He's accompanied by a distinct lack of passion as he leafs through the offers, scanning character after character after character. None resonate with his soul. Despite being first, only one offer requests him specifically. He's not surprised – considering his speciality.

_We want you because you are the top student_, it says, in many more words that ultimately mean the same thing. _Fukui Holdings wants to expand its investments within Europe. Your specialist education in fine arts is unimportant to us, since you were the only graduate this year to pick French on top of your English learning._

He's offered assistance and mentoring, first work as a translator, and will be paid to take additional business courses at the same time.

Skim. Flick through the other offers to compare. Murasaki's eyebrows rise.

He'll be paid _a lot_.

For a man who's been a prodigy for most of his life, in a system designed to churn children into geniuses or break them beyond repair – a man with no real goal in life except to exist—

Money is as good a reason as any.

* * *

Three months ago, Murasaki learnt why Fukui Holdings had been so determined to hire him.

Murasaki's been good at avoiding more social interaction than he needs to indulge. He'd never cared about attaining promotions, or garnering the goodwill of his fellow co-workers, because so long as he's being paid to work he'll continue to complete it efficiently and a fraction beyond satisfactory. Not impressive enough to set any bars, not so little that he's perceived as lazy, but just enough to be considered reliable and worth investing in.

The only _nomikai_ Murasaki'd attended had been the first. He'd lasted all of five minutes at the drinking party after the alcohol made its rounds, cigarettes were broken out, and his co-workers loosened up. After excusing himself, he'd never returned.

Three months ago, he'd received an invitation by email from someone with an email he didn't know, tagged it as junk, and added the sender to his blocked list.

Three months ago, the woman called Momoka visited him in order to ask why.

Murasaki's sure the visit has to have breached all sorts of protocol, but Momoka isn't one of Fukui Holdings' most influential shareholders for nothing. He doesn't find out her position until she drags him out for coffee in a private lounge. Murasaki's more annoyed by how he'd been interrupted translating mid-slide than amazed at the view of Tokyo's skyline, suspended a few hundred metres off the ground and framed by glass walls to three sides.

She's charming. Well-dressed, in a rich suit. A splash of red accentuates the undertones of her hair.

When he returns, his co-workers will be intolerable.

The aroma of bold coffee fills the space. Momoka smiles. "Your tea was just brewed. I would be surprised if it did anything to insult you so soon."

Apparently, Murasaki is frowning.

"Or perhaps you're examining the reflection?" says Momoka. "I hear fortune telling is back in fashion."

"Ms. Momoka—"

"Just Momoka. Please."

Murasaki doesn't indicate he's heard. "Ms. Momoka, may I ask why you've invited me whilst I should be working?"

"Stubborn one, aren't you?"

Murasaki takes a sip. It's good, expensive tea. Nothing he doesn't know already.

"I thought it was well about time I introduced myself to you," says Momoka, "and let you know why you're working for Fukui. You see – I asked Wataru if he could bring you in. Make a job offer you'd be a fool to refuse. I like Fukui. I also like you."

"I'm not looking for a relationship," the flat reply.

Her laughter sounds like bells. Perfect, as to be expected of a woman well-refined.

"What a wonderful answer."

For a while, there's silence. Momoka's watching him. Her stare is hypnotic, entrancing – at some point, the aroma of coffee'd been replaced by a sweet, flowery perfume.

She blinks, and Murasaki's in the real world again.

"It's always the most interesting people who come out of Facultas," says Momoka. "Tell me—as The Prodigy, the best graduate in history—why did you choose fine arts as your speciality?"

"I..."

...

Why had he cared enough to begin an answer?

Momoka's smiling at him again. It's equal parts patient and equal parts expecting. Murasaki decides he doesn't like the taste of green tea.

The cup is placed aside. "The sky isn't made of steel."

* * *

He neglects to mention it's a web instead.

* * *

Murasaki'd been shuttled across Fukui's many divisions, someone having decided that he'd apparently learnt enough to begin working on his own. For some reason that means relocating to Yokohama, to the headquarters of one of its subsidiaries.

It's all temporary, he'd been informed. All until their dealings in Europe are stable enough for him to travel and work directly from there.

When Murasaki notices that ninety-five percent of those working on Level Four have only one name, written in knifelike _katakana_ lines, he doesn't bother hoping.

Two weeks later it's as if he'd never been assured.

(Murasaki thinks Momoka'd decided his answer was lacking, or she'd found someone else to keep her entertained.)

"_Monsieur Bernier,_ _à la suite de notre conversation relative à SICAV_—"

It's nearing five in the afternoon in Japan. According to the digital dashboard on the back wall, it's late morning in the Eurozone and very, very early morning in New York. Murasaki's fortunate his third language is French. He's not forced into the cumbersome hours worked by those covering Wall Street. It's one less concern in a world where money has to flow smoothly through a handful of jurisdictions at the click of a button; a world where currency markets opened and closed at different times of the day. His job can be reduced to doing research and conducting deals in a market halfway around the globe. All for those who knew what they wanted, but couldn't speak the language.

His hours also mean that, of all the Minimum Holders on Level Four, those with the more... _distracting_ conditions for activation aren't present whilst he's there.

_Crack._ A sheet of candy snaps in half.

Most of them, anyway.

At the desk directly opposite his, Honey grins, entirely unaware of Murasaki's frustration.

"_Get you!_" she says, followed by the obnoxious rattling of keyboard keys.

Honey holds Level Four's record for the fastest typing speed, at nearly two hundred words per minute. Murasaki eyes the tray on her desk, filled with a dozen lollipop sticks.

Analysis Minimum or not, he thinks, she also holds the record for the most annoying sound – made all the more worse by its unpredictability, because her activations are random and never according to any specific time.

He would have scoffed, but he'd seen how she can process thousands of variables from millions of statistics in a single instant, as fast as the most powerful supercomputers in the world. She holds a doctorate in statistics. She's being paid to develop a revolutionary trading algorithm, whilst he, like most of the others on Level Four, performed duties more akin to back office organisation.

Momoka's interest in him or not doesn't matter—compared to Honey, Murasaki is expendable.

(A sign on Honey's desk says, "_Call me 'doctor' __and I will skin you._")

Murasaki's call ends. He hangs up, glances over the notes he'd made during his conversation with Francis Bernier, and decides they're adequate enough that he may take a break and continue later.

The manager doesn't even look at him when he leaves. The ideal workplace harmony _wa_ of a floor full of Minimum Holders, all with odd activation conditions and all integral to the success of the company, is nothing near traditional. Coming and going as pleased is not the strangest dynamic on Level Four, but one critical to maintaining self-control.

There's a convenience store in a corner down the road, so Murasaki buys dinner. Two bentos, the second for Honey. With the intensity at which she'd been typing, chances are that she won't remember to eat until midnight. She'd bought lunch for him when he'd forgotten a few days ago.

(He always leaves before her; he's never seen her go home.)

The clerk scans the boxes. Murasaki digs a hand into his pocket for change.

"Say," begins the clerk, suddenly. "Are you lost?"

Murasaki'd expected the comment to be standard convenience store talk, having handed over the exact amount. He glances around, unsure whether the urge is from some sleeping instinct or an uncharacteristic burst of self-consciousness, only to find that he and the clerk are the only people in the store. There are no other customers or even staff to give greetings at the door, despite it being Yokohama at five in the evening.

He recognises the clerk by the faint amount of facial hair at his chin that moves when he speaks. They're both regulars, and should know one another.

"What?" says Murasaki.

"Your eyes. They're tired of the world."

Murasaki opens his mouth to say that _no, sorry_, he's not remotely interested in anything religious or being preached to on his way out. He doesn't. A chill creeps out from where the arms of his glasses come into contact with his ears.

The clerk lowers the arm he'd raised. Murasaki has no doubt – it's the effect of a Minimum.

"Did you know that even graduates from Facultas are monitored in their day to day lives?" says the clerk. "You have a tail outside the store that we should be dealing with now. Consider it a gift for taking your time."

"What do you want?"

"To extend an invitation."

"I'm not religious."

"We aren't a religion." Hooded eyes sharpen beneath dark hair. Murasaki wonders how he could have once missed that stare's intensity. "We're a family."

Suddenly the main doors slide open, followed by greetings of "Welcome!"; the world returns to normal. Murasaki's purchase is extended to him.

"Thank you," says the clerk.

He then moves onto his next customer, smiling as if nothing'd occurred. Murasaki watches him.

If Murasaki expects anything else to occur before he reaches the sliding doors, he'll be greatly disappointed.

His return to the office is uneventful. Even if the clerk had been telling the truth, and Murasaki had been followed until now, the trip back is so much the same that he wouldn't have known. Still, as he heads up to Level Four, he resolves to cast the incident from his mind. By the time he's reached his desk the memory is nearly discarded altogether.

—Until he opens the plastic bag to find a black business card adorned with a butterfly.

Honey's still typing. She glances up only when Murasaki drops one of the bentos on her desk, lollipop protruding from the corner of her mouth, and nods silently in thanks without looking at what he'd chosen.

After he sits down, Murasaki ignores the logical thought to immediately throw away the business card in favour of his curiosity. _Café Without._ An address and telephone number are printed neatly in one corner. Struck by impulse, he turns the card over.

It turns out Café Without's business card is one-sided, with handwritten text on the back.

_Freemum is our family._

_Call if you ever need help. Ask for me._

_You are not alone._

– _Ishigami Shunichi._

* * *

**/TBC/**


	5. F2

_**Warnings: **This update contains **tw: gore**, **tw: suicide** and **tw: bad attitudes to suicide**. If you want to take no chances, a link to a safe version of this chapter is on my profile. (it's slightly different but still workable)_

* * *

**—**

**« F2 »**

—

* * *

Three goes to Facultas promised redemption, is subjected to study that would leave ordinary men dead countless times, and leaves an empty shell.

"Why?" he asks.

The head researcher is tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw and a receding hairline tucked beneath a surgical cap. He's not the man operating the microscope but the one who orders others to do it for him. The one time he'd stepped into the pit had been at the beginning, when he'd literally taken names; Facultas's seal of ownership, emblazoned on all, noticed only by those made aware. Not even the old combat records from Three's homeland remember the ghost he'd once been.

Three's seen the man many times behind the panel of bulletproof glass on one end of the room. Sometimes watching, sometimes missing, sometimes reading data from an array of screens where there used to be wall.

He's never seen the head researcher pause. "Why what?"

"Why haven't you killed me?"

The head researcher turns to look at him. Three lacks the strength to be insulted by the pity in dark eyes; it's strength he used to have, but not any more.

"That's against the law," the head researcher replies. As if human experimentation is not. "Sorry."

Three bows.

"I apologise for the trouble."

* * *

A few times, in the first few months, he'd wished for freedom. Brief fantasies of being discovered between flashes of fire, eliminated by his guilt and reminders of his failure.

He's killed countless men.

Who would go hunting for a sinner in the deepest bowels of Facultas, guarded by men trained to shoot upon sight?

His discharge is something he'd never dreamed. Three is nothing if not adaptable, takes it in stride – forces ever-cycling emotions away to focus on finding the children he'd left behind.

They're gone.

It's been too long.

It's not a sinking heart but the slam of heaven's pearly gates that accompany understanding.

He'll never reach redemption.

* * *

Three doesn't go to sleep most nights. Not when the only thing that awaits are the harrowing screams of children slowly burning alive.

Sometimes they rip his chest open, scrabbling tiny fingers into the bloody cavity, peeling away taut flesh and knotted muscle. Their tiny fingers are comical in the knuckle guard of his trench knife, each loop five times too big, but they still determinedly lever his ribcage apart for prising out his heart. All at the same time, choking fumes force their way down his throat, faces in front of his eyes boiling off layer by layer _by layer_—

He gets rest eventually, though not by choice. He's failed so much that it's no surprise he'd disappointed his body too.

* * *

Three has a job. It's at a freight company busy in the middle of a big contract.

He's not paid, but he doesn't need to be. Facultas had given him a generous payment in exchange for the data they'd received over the handful of years. He'd been drafted by the company because he'd accidentally crushed part of a truck in the middle of yet another nauseous spell.

(He gets them a lot—where the blood in his brain falls down and bile rises through his throat and up his nose, all his fluids deciding to play musical chairs without asking permission first.)

Even if the freight company's just using him because they find his strength more appealing than using machines, he doesn't care.

It's the only thing keeping him alive.

* * *

In hindsight, realising takes him longer than he's expected.

But it's hard for a dead soldier to conclude against instinct that he needs to kill himself _(again)_.

* * *

It's difficult to track down the materials he needs, though not impossible.

_Over the counter_, they'd said.

He's already assured too many people that _no_, he's not planning suicide, and _yes_, he needs the bleach for legitimate reasons.

* * *

_And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone._

* * *

Three wonders if hell smells like hydrogen sulphide.

* * *

He finishes the last day of work he owes. On his way home he detours to buy the last ingredient. He's waited long enough.

Today is the day he disappoints people no longer.

Three's ascending the stairs to his apartment when he bumps into her, a young girl in combat boots and messy dark hair. She looks at the plastic bag hanging at Three's side, blinks lazily, then casts her eyes into his own; when they meet, a sharp pulse lances through his heart.

It takes too long to recognise it as fear.

—though, the container shouldn't be visible, so she shouldn't know. Even if its shape would be evident and so would the shop's logo.

"Are you planning on killing yourself?" she asks.

She knows.

Three doesn't say anything. How can he, when she's so young? When she reminds him of the children he's failed?

(_They would nearly be her age, now._)

Her eyes break contact first. She continues her descent and walks past him.

"Fine," she says. "Just do it after I'm gone."

Three stares after her.

"...You aren't going to say anything?"

"Someone might hear us talking," is the reply. "President Okura will be mad if I'm questioned about someone's suicide again."

Three falls silent.

Just when the girl reaches the foot of the steps and is about to turn out of the front door, she stops.

"If you're going to do it, just do it. I still have... to pay him back... convincing someone who's given up on themselves is a waste of my time."

She doesn't turn to look at him again, and vanishes from his life as quickly as she'd entered.

* * *

The main room of Three's apartment can be divided into two, where wooden boards end and _tatami_ begin, by a folding wall so the two floors no longer need to share. He's never used the feature until now. It's simply more convenient to keep the room open when he lives alone.

He's thankful for it, because it means he can see the moon before he dies.

Hydrogen sulphide is an apathetic monster, never caring whom it burns. It possesses no intentions, unable to distinguish between a target or collateral in the wrong place at the wrong time. The folding wall isn't entirely airtight, so Three carefully takes the time to tape plastic across all the gaps from where the gas could escape, and leaves warning signs outside.

Three's sinned enough in his life. He doesn't need to kill anyone after death either.

Neither will death by hydrogen sulphide be easy.

Three takes a seat on the cushion against the tatami floor, and tucks his legs beneath him in _seiza_. An empty bucket rests in front of him, the containers of each component to either side. In the far distance, through the window, the moon begins its drift across the depths of the night sky.

All that's left is to mix both ingredients together.

Three remembers the girl's words, her request for a delay. She's recognised him enough to not force his choices, to leave alone a man who'd given... given up on themselves.

Given up on themselves.

He sits there, waiting for the right time.

He sits there, thinking about his life and the girl who recognised him, and—

* * *

He falls asleep.

* * *

Three wakes in time to watch the sun rise.

* * *

He might not have given up on himself, but that doesn't mean he's ready to return to the world again.

* * *

Half a year later, Three tracks down the mysterious President Okura, a whiskery man with fading hair and dozens of golden rings on nine digits of his hands. Miraki Lending has Yakuza connections. Okura Yuichi's missing the last finger on his right hand.

He also has a private bodyguard position open, the means to obtain classified information, a preference for hiring Minimum Holders and a nature that finds the Bloody Beast's credentials more than satisfactory.

By the end of the first week, not having seen anyone younger than him working at Miraki's offices except their blond secretary, Three's wondering if he's found the wrong Okura when the girl steps through the door.

Okura shuffles over to her, as if his suit isn't worth Three's annual income, and _coos_.

(They have similar eyes. Three wonders if they're related – later, he finds out they aren't.)

"Good morning, sweet Hajime!" exclaims Okura; for a moment he looks like a kind uncle, rather than the ex-lieutenant of a great Yakuza family. "Aah, that super cute hat, those super cute shorts, a look of such youthful innocence... _moe_ as always! Don't you think so, Mamiya?"

The secretary Mamiya doesn't look up from the keyboard and mumbles something non-committal. Three looks back to Hajime, now he can put a name to the face that's remained in his memories, only to find her staring.

"You're alive," she says.

"...You remember?"

It's not conscious thought that makes Three's voice break. Okura is looking at Three now, a sideways glance, one hand hovering over the pocket where Three knows the man keeps his weapon.

Hajime doesn't reply.

"How do you know Hajime?" says Okura.

Three isn't stupid enough to miss the threat beneath the words.

"She saved my life, sir," he replies. "I want to thank her."

Okura purses his lips. "And that is why the Bloody Beast wants to work for me?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see. Then, in that case, thanks of what sort?"

Three's unprepared for the question, so he doesn't manage an answer.

"Let me do you a favour, first," says Okura, "and let you know that Hajime has a debt."

Three inclines his head. "I see. Am I able to help repay that some way?"

"No. I am the only person in the world that can do that."

"Then—"

"I have made many enemies, Three," says Okura. "If they kill me, Hajime will never be able to live in peace again. I will be blunt: protect me from them with everything you know—and then, you'll no longer owe her the rest of your existence by freeing her from the shackles of her debt in turn."

President Okura is a dangerous man.

Three looks to Hajime, but Hajime is looking away.

* * *

"I didn't save you," Hajime tells him later. It's too late for him to change his mind – supposing he wants to leave her on her own. He's grown to like being around her as the shield rather than the sword, even if she's not the one he's strictly protecting. "You saved yourself."

* * *

_File attached: A_life_without_Honey.F2_

[ visit profile for link or edit this url to view: _i. imgur {dot~com} xfahmqQ. jpg_ ]

* * *

**/TBC/**

* * *

_ **We interrupt your regular programming to provide a huge PSA: Should you ever need to deal with a suicidal person, **_**do not leave them alone_._**_  
Know where to find an appropriate suicide hotline by searching 'suicide prevention'. thanks._


	6. 05

It's been so long since the handymen have had a proper job that, when Ratio finds Birthday in the lobby as he makes to take his usual lunch break, Ratio immediately assumes Birthday's in the mood for mooching.

"If you want something, remember to make sure I can get back in half an hour," says Ratio.

Birthday actually manages to look offended – despite the fact he's all but lounging across the one of the hospital's angular chairs. His sunglasses are hanging off his teeth like he hasn't chewed anything for weeks. Ratio's toaster knows Birthday'd used his stun gun just yesterday, and Ratio knows because the toaster needs replacing.

The sunglasses are returned to their usual position, perched atop Birthday's nose.

"_Ratio_," says Birthday, "I don't _always_ meet you just for a free lunch."

"No," agrees Ratio. "You usually get free breakfast and dinner while you're at it."

"See? You love me."

Ratio sighs. "What would you like today?"

"Ramen. And," Birthday leaps to his feet, slings an arm around Ratio's shoulders so easily like it's made to belong; a slip of paper materialises in his other hand, and he waves it in front of Ratio's face, "you to get off work as soon as you can. Or to take a day off tomorrow."

"Why?"

A grin as great as the sun. "Big dollars are calling—we're finally called to action!"

* * *

**05: Golden Goose Gambit**

* * *

The flower shop Anemone is close enough to where Ratio and Birthday usually spend their days that it only takes a little more than ten minutes by car, but it's far enough that Birthday wouldn't have gone and picked up a job alone. It's quaint and little, a simple shopfront with delicate displays and various bouquets spilling colour onto the sidewalk. The shop's name is printed as simply on its sign as on its website; elegant pink atop minimalistic white, typeface subtle and not too demanding.

Ratio's seen the payment quoted over the phone, jotted down in Birthday's handwriting. Anemone is not a place he would have assumed such an extravagant figure could be cultivated.

A gentle bell alerts any inhabitants within of their arrival. The interior is all warm wood and the smell of cut grass; Ratio's slammed with a sudden lack of belonging, he who possesses golden gauntlets and stands stiffly like a metal watchtower within an empty field. Birthday, clothed in chestnut and head tufted gold, is an improvement but doesn't manage to mesh either. Ratio wonders if it's the sandals or the tattoo which prevent him from fitting in.

"Welcome to Anemone," says a soft voice. It belongs to a woman behind the counter. The plants are an extension of her, or she's an extension of them, so much so that Ratio didn't notice her presence until she drew attention to it. She has scarlet hair and a kind smile.

She also has a very large chest under a blue apron. Ratio doesn't even need a second to know that Birthday's zeroed in, and kicks him.

"Ow," says Birthday. "Geez, Ratio—"

He's cut off. "Hello. We're looking for a Ms. Momoka."

"Ah, that's me," says the woman, Momoka. "Forgive my rudeness, but... would I be correct in assuming you are Ratio and Birthday?"

"Indeed," says Birthday, sketching a flamboyant bow. "I am Sir Birthday, and my dearest companion here is Ratio. You mentioned a price but said details were to be discussed in person... How may we be of assistance?"

"What do you think about photojournalism?" says Momoka.

"Photojournalism?"

Momoka spares half a glance back out to the street, before reaching under the counter. A photo is presented to them; it's of a spindly young man in bright street clothes, with two bandages on his cheeks and another taped across his nose.

"I would like at least five photos of this man's daily life, ones that can capture the type of person he is," says Momoka.

It's more stalking than photojournalism, but if there's anything the handymen have learnt, it's to never ask why. That still doesn't stop Ratio from inclining his head.

"Usually people would hire private investigators for a job like this," says Ratio.

"Oh, I've asked many private investigators," is the reply. "They've all been very disappointing. I've heard great reviews about you two... maybe a more _colourful_ approach is necessary."

"You can count on us!" says Birthday. "We've got this in the bag."

Because Birthday's agreed, even if there's something about the request that has him oddly suspicious, Ratio acquiesces and goes along with him.

* * *

Birthday's appropriated Ratio's car many times for many different reasons. Sometimes as a bed, sometimes for both the eating and storing of food, and sometimes as a post for asking girls out on dates.

So, when Birthday decides he'd like to tape the photo onto the dashboard for whatever reason, it's only because of careful foresight and a good understanding of Birthday's whims that means Ratio keeps masking tape with him.

If he didn't, Birthday may have seriously ended up damaging the interior.

"Seventy-two hours is a very tight deadline," says Ratio.

"Some women just don't want to wait," replies Birthday, absently. "Say, don't you think that sign in the background looks familiar?"

"Which?"

It's yellow and barely visible behind their target's shoulder.

"The Sweets&Treats Bakery, in Minami Ward?" offers Ratio.

"Looks like it," says Birthday. "Actually, I'm pretty sure of it. See the shape of the crack in the corner? Doesn't it look like a hot babe?"

"_That's_ why you remember?"

"Hey, are you complaining?—wait," Birthday blinks, "if you didn't see that, how do _you_ recognise it?"

Ratio's chest tightens. He shrugs to try and loosen the seatbelt strapped over his shoulders, even though he knows it isn't to blame.

"I'd bumped into an old friend under there before," says Ratio. "That's all."

* * *

"I—I've never seen him in my life," whispers the man whose name tag reads 'Sato'.

Birthday grins and rolls forward onto the balls of his feet.

It's probably more than a little mean that he'd barged into the small shop, blatantly bypassed the rows of baked goods and woven around the small island displays before suddenly asking (_demanding_) the people behind the counter if they knew the guy in the photo. Especially since it's bad for public image. Ratio'd followed silently, uncomplaining, that great white coat commanding the presence Birthday lacks.

Mean, sure. But hey, they have work to do.

(Birthday wonders how Ratio deals with him sometimes, really.)

They've been through this before, of course. Birthday asks the questions, Ratio stands by. Not that they'll need the Perspective Minimum in this case to determine if Sato's lying – Sato's looking everywhere except directly toward them, grasping weakly at his sleeves.

Take five photos of some guy for a chick with super rocking tits? The way things're going, the amount they'll be paid for it...

Easiest job in the world.

Sato's _way_ freaky tall, though, like he's related to a skyscraper, so Birthday has to settle with peering upwards in a totally earnest and non-creepy manner.

"_Really?_ You _sure_ you've never met him before?"

Birthday senses more than sees Ratio shifting beside him. He imagines how utterly imposing Ratio has to look in that moment, badass eyepatch and no-nonsense leather gloves and all, and stifles a giggle. Not the time.

The two of them leave with an address, minutes later.

* * *

_MIRAKI LENDING_

The building is a shop squashed between an apartment complex to either side. The apartments are burnt with watermarks and wear where Miraki Lending glows with light and life.

Birthday looks at the sign and, for some reason, has to suppress a shudder.

"Okay, Birthday?" asks Ratio.

Of course Ratio still notices.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just... I dunno, doesn't this place creep you out a little?"

Ratio glances around. Birthday does too, trying to pinpoint the source, but all he sees are normal Japanese streets filled with normal Japanese people; normal shopfronts and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. A blur alerts him to Ratio lifting the eyepatch for closer examination of their surrounds.

There's a long pause.

"...It's full of Minimum."

"You can see Minimums now?" says Birthday.

Ratio shakes his head. "Some of the physiology is strange in the people working around the area. It's hard to tell, the buildings are shielding. I might be wrong."

"Well," says Birthday, leaping ahead, pivoting on one foot so he can face Ratio at the same time, "let's go ahead to this 'Miraki Lending' place and find this guy anyway—"

"Who are you looking for?"

Birthday didn't scream at the voice behind him where there'd previously been thin air. The sudden, monotonous words don't remind him of decapitated zombie heads at all. It's not like Birthday has a weakness for horror movies or anything. Honest.

"_Gah?!_"

...Okay, so Birthday might have yelped. A bit. Normal, right?

He hops back into a crouch. Of all the things he expected, it definitely isn't a young girl in an ultra-fashionable blue hoodie, sending him a stare so bland she wouldn't even sneeze if he added pepper.

(Birthday looks further down, sees toned thighs and short shorts, and thinks: _cute, but not really sexy._ Not like Momoka, who's a blessing from above. Wow. _Momoka._)

"Hajime," comes a voice so low it may as well be a growl – and it's from Miraki's doorstep, where a beast of a man stands, made of so much muscle that he's literally as wide as the girl is _tall_, "is this boy bothering you?"

Ratio's reassuring presence joins Birthday's side. Birthday wants to hug him.

"If he is, I apologise," says Ratio, to the beast-man. "We're looking to speak to someone who works at Miraki Lending."

He's ignored; Hajime turns away from Ratio and Birthday.

"Are the pancakes done yet?"

The beast-man moves his head back inside. "Mamiya, has the president finished Hajime's pancakes yet?" After a short pause, a reply is apparently received, since the beast-man shifts so he's looking back at Hajime again. "Ten minutes."

Hajime frowns.

"I work for Miraki," she tells Ratio and Birthday. "Who are you looking for?"

Birthday and Ratio exchange a glance. _Why not_, says Birthday; _Alright_, replies Ratio.

The photo from Momoka is extracted from a pocket and handed over. Hajime's eyes narrow sharply on sight, and it's taken with tense shoulders and shaking hands. For a long second she's silent, then, faster than they can react, her fingers curl around the side and rip it into two. Two pieces become four, four become eight—and then nothing remains except tiny scraps and shredded confetti.

Birthday's jaw drops. His sunglasses slip off his nose, and beside him, Ratio stiffens before locking his fists together. Fortunately, the gloves aren't off.

Yet.

"_Hey!_" says Birthday. "What was that for?"

A divine gust of wind rushes past, sweep Hajime's bangs across her face, taking with it any impassivity in her expression. It leaves only the icy glare of a dragon uncoiling from long sleep; a deity of tumultuous seas sealed within the body of a fragile girl, freed into the mortal realm.

"I won't let anybody take him," she says, and opens her hands.

The wind snatches the remains of the photo away.

* * *

"This sucks," says Birthday.

They're back in Ratio's car, having picked it up from the car park, and Ratio's driving. Birthday leans back against the seat and wishes he could roll over. Unfortunately, the fact that Ratio's car is ultra-sporty and thus needs bucket seats to look ultra-cool means that rolling over isn't as comfortable as he really would have liked it to be.

Birthday closes his eyes instead.

"This sucks," he repeats, just for good measure. "Seriously, all we need are five photos, but we lost our only lead! How did it get so hard?"

Ratio's still driving, so he doesn't reply.

Birthday cracks an eye open in the middle of extended silence. "Where're we headed, Ratiocchi?"

"Yokohama Chinatown."

"Chinatown?" Not exactly the answer Birthday'd been expecting.

"I wonder if it's worth asking Mao."

"Mao? That informant guy?"

"That's him."

Birthday straightens. He's awake now. "Can we even get any info without being able to ask what we even need?"

"I'm not sure," says Ratio. "Logically that would be an impossibility, however... so is a large portion of the information he gathers. It's worth a try."

There's another pause between them. They're slowly nearing Chinatown now; the police headquarters building passes on one side.

Birthday's sure it's not his imagination when Ratio gives it a long glance.

"Ratio?" says Birthday.

"Yes?"

"What are you thinking?"

There's no answer.

Not for the first time, Birthday's upset by the backwardness of Ratio's foreign import – the right-hand design means he's only able to stare at Ratio's eyepatch, so it's hard to read Ratio's eyes. The hands are tense against the wheel, however. The shoulders are tense too.

Birthday leans over and pokes him. It's testimony to Ratio's nerves when he loses concentration, and the car briefly swerves aside for a fraction of a second; fortunately, Ratio's able to recover before they crash or any other horrible things occur.

"What are you doing?" hisses Ratio.

The car behind them isn't impressed either if the beeping is any indication. Birthday sits back.

"You were being stupid again," says Birthday. "I thought I killed that face. Come on, spill."

"...He works there."

"Who? One of your patients?" No response; Birthday wracks his brain; guessing games with Ratio are usually easy, but not when he can't tell what's going on in Ratio's head at all.

_At all?_

_"I'd bumped into an old friend under there before. That's all."_

Birthday watches Ratio very carefully. "It wouldn't be that 'old friend' you met under that sign, would it?"

Stiffly, Ratio nods.

_Bingo._

"If it's not Chiyuu, since Chiyuu's definitely not a guy, and you weren't particularly close to anyone else at school," says Birthday, "I don't know them, do I?"

Ratio's silent.

"Do you miss him?" asks Birthday.

"I don't have time to meet him," says Ratio.

"But you have time to hang out with me."

The car turns.

"What's your point, Birthday? We've parted ways. He's got his job and I have mine."

"You don't have a life!" says Birthday, thinking: _no life without me._ "If you want to meet your other friends, go ahead. I'm not the only person in the world."

The rest of the journey is taken in silence. Birthday hates reminding Ratio about his weakness; both their weaknesses.

He hates holding Ratio back even more.

* * *

It's not Mao behind the counter.

Birthday's pretty sure his eyes bugged when he sees the person – _their target_ – casually reading the newspaper. The Chinese newspaper. He's also wearing some traditionally Chinese-inspired outfit instead of the clothes he'd been wearing in the photo, but not even the pair of stupid glasses can render the three bandages on his face invisible or hide away the rough features beneath brown hair.

There's no doubt about it. It's definitely him.

"Y-you—"

The man looks up. "Ah, welcome." He speaks with an accent that matches his Chinese theme.

Birthday opens his mouth. He closes it wordlessly.

Thankfully, Ratio's not impersonating a dying fish. "Where is Mao?"

"One of _those_ customers?" asks the man. He receives two nods in reply, folds the newspaper neatly before placing it aside, then leans forward over the counter. "Mao is away for now. I... am his partner. What do you need?"

Ohh, blunt.

Birthday notes the lazy scratching of a bandage and stretches his arms behind his head; thinks: _two can play this game._

"Photos of you," says Birthday.

Ratio glances across. "_Birthday_—"

"Me?" asks the man. "I'd no idea I'd become so popular."

"You definitely are," says Birthday. "Totally, absolutely. So popular you've got fans wanting to know what it's like; 'A Day in the Life of...' – sorry, I don't think we ever caught your name."

There's a smirk. Birthday responds with a grin even when he's kicked in the shin.

"Feng," says the man – indulgently, because with such a dreadful hook the reply can't be anything but. "'A Day in the Life of Feng', huh?"

Birthday snaps his fingers and strikes a majestic pose.

"_Yes!_" says Birthday. "Amazing! _Fantastic!_ I see it now... shining ever brightly in the darkest skies, the eerie wind stealing candy in the night...! Knock everything down, newsflash; 'A Day in the Life of Feng' will be the top-blockbuster hit of the century! Lights, camera, action—_you._"

When his only reply is silence, Birthday wonders if he's misjudged the situation. But then he notices that Feng's shaking, shoulders vibrating up and down—and then Feng's laugh breaks through his throat and flies free into the open air. It's a disgusting laugh, in Birthday's opinion, all choking consonants and guttural syllables, the stuff weeds are made of and fairies die from, but it's still a laugh that Birthday's achieved.

Ratio's looking at Birthday like he's wondering if his head is screwed on correctly. Birthday wants to know that himself, because when did he take a left turn into Bizarro Lane?

Either way, he's good. Real good. _Man_, he's the best.

Feng removes the glasses and rises to his feet.

"I'll need to make a phone call," he says. The accent is gone. "If Mao agrees, I don't see the harm in letting Odd Jobs' Ratio and Birthday fulfil a request they never should have gotten so close to completing."

* * *

"Damn," says Birthday, after Feng steps out back. "He was onto us all along."

Ratio's doesn't point out that he'd expected as much, since there wouldn't be any other reason for Feng to reveal himself as Mao's partner if it weren't as a warning.

There's something about Feng that stirs odd instincts Ratio never knew he had. Ratio stares at the door Feng'd left through, trying to decipher their mysterious code.

All he understands is that Feng feels like Momoka.

What that means, he has no idea.

"That kind of stunt's going to kill you one day, Birthday," says Ratio.

"In that case, you'll have to avenge me," says Birthday's voice – from behind the counter, definitely not where Ratio expected him to be. "_A-ra~?_"

Birthday's poking at something in the line of shelves along the wall. Ratio nearly runs over to pull him back. He's stopped only because of the knowledge that, if he does, it would attract even more attention.

"Birthday, what are you—"

He's ignored. "Isn't that...?"

"What?"

Birthday turns around. In his hands he's holding a photo identical to the one Momoka'd given them, the one which had been ripped apart by Hajime.

There's the sound of footsteps. Birthday doesn't get a chance to cover his tracks when Feng emerges from the back room. Feng leans against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets; he's changed back into the vest and jeans, and Ratio notices the earphones in his ears.

"You've got guts," says Feng.

"Sorry," says Birthday. "I was wondering if you had a secret porn stash back here."

Feng doesn't even react.

Ratio takes it as an indication to continue. "That photo...?"

"It belonged to a private investigator that tried to stalk me yesterday," says Feng. "Since both of you recognise it, I'd like the copies you have as well."

"Ours is gone," says Birthday.

"Gone how?"

"It was destroyed when we went to investigate at Miraki Lending."

Feng watches them for several long seconds, eyes sharp and assessing. Birthday's fidgeting, twirling the photo between his fingers, whilst Ratio remains perfectly still. Whatever Feng is looking for, he likely finds it, because he walks over. One hand is held out to take back the photo; Birthday obliges, before retreating back to Ratio's side.

The photo's returned to the shelf, and disappears from view.

"Mao gave his okay," says Feng. "Let's go. Where'd you park your car?"

Ratio tells him. Feng nods in acknowledgement, walks them out of the shop, and locks the doors behind him.

* * *

They're in the streets of Naka Ward, travelling back to Anemone, when Birthday suddenly rises out of his seat and presses his hands and face against the window. Ratio assumes he's seen a girl, but he's mainly hoping that _god, don't let Birthday be licking the glass again_.

"Wait, wait, wait, _wait!_" says Birthday. "Hold on a second, turn right!"

Ratio switches lanes without hesitation.

—After the turn, he finds out that it's not a girl that had caught Birthday's attention but a very, very distinctive building.

Birthday's grinning. "Don't think you get to avoid it, Ratio."

It's too late. The police department nears ever closer.

"I hate you," says Ratio, without malice; he knows what Birthday's trying to do.

"I love you too."

* * *

If Birthday hadn't been convinced that Ratio's actually an old man, meeting Ratio's friend did the trick.

Truth be told, Birthday hadn't thought any further than "Get Ratio in that building where his friend works". Fortunately for him, they'd barely entered when Ratio stopped in his tracks, because Ratio's friend had been in the lobby. Birthday follows Ratio's gaze to a young man with white hair next to an old guy, who also had white hair.

If forced to choose, Birthday would have picked the younger as the friend in question.

Their approach isn't without notice, especially since Birthday is positively _manhandling _Ratio towards them; both men look up, the young man politely curious and the old guy halfway through a sentence –

- and Birthday watches as the old guy trails off, eyebrows shooting up into the sky.

"Ratio?"

...Of course, it turns out Ratio's friend is the other one.

Not that Birthday's really complaining. The old man's a chill sweatpants kind of dude that has so much cool he has to wear his collar wide open. There's a small white ponytail off his chin and a darker ponytail at his neck, and did Birthday mention the cane yet? Practical _and_ stylish. Ratio's taste is damn fine.

(They also both have one eye visible at all times, which Birthday notes consideringly. Cyclops party?)

Birthday's still holding onto Ratio's shoulders, so all Ratio can do is nod. "Good afternoon, Gasquet."

"Good afternoon to you too," says Gasquet. "This is definitely a surprise. Oh—" he turns to the young man beside him, "this is Art. Art, this is Ratio. He's the kid who helped Miwako."

"It's nice to meet you," says Art, and bows.

Art's hair isn't actually white, now that Birthday's close enough that the yellow wash from overhead lights can't bleed all the lavender away. His eyes are at once confident and kind, and when he smiles, the mole under his left eye smiles with him.

Cute.

"I'm Birthday," says Birthday, before Ratio gets a chance to introduce him in turn. He releases Ratio's shoulders, moves aside to return the bow with a quick one of his own, then slides closer. "What's this about a Miwako, Ratio? That's a girl's name. I didn't know Ratio knew girls."

"It was before we met," says Ratio, dismissively. "I apologise, are we interrupting?"

Gasquet shakes his head. "Not at all. I'm just making sure Art takes his break instead of going back to work. It's been a while. How's life as a doctor treating you?"

"Not bad. Sometimes it's hard, but... it's good."

"Make sure you keep putting that eye to good use, alright?"

"I will."

Birthday eyes Ratio closely. He's starting to relax again.

"Art," says Gasquet, "if you ever need a doctor for anything, I recommend Ratio."

Art looks to them curiously.

"If I may ask, are you Agency certified?" says Art.

[_ Agency – the Minimum Agency. The Agency certified are those professionals officially sworn into the secret of the Minimum._ ]

"I am," says Ratio. "Would you like my business card?"

"I would, thank you."

Ratio searches in his pockets, finds his case, then extends a business card with a slight bow. Art nods, then offers his own in turn. If Birthday cranes his head, Art's reads _Superintendent_, and Birthday whistles mentally because Art is really, really young. Confirmation: Facultas alum.

Art spends some time reading Ratio's card, committing the details to memory, before storing it safely within a sleek holder.

He checks the time.

"May I go back to work now, Mr. Gasquet?" says Art.

Gasquet chuckles. "Go ahead, I'm not your boss. It's amazing you still keep me around."

"Please don't joke about that," says Art. "You're still very important to me."

"And to Ratio," adds Birthday, ignoring the way Ratio tenses next to him. Well, it's true – what were with the reactions earlier then, otherwise? "In fact, as Ratio's bestest buddy since forever, I'll personally make sure he visits more from now on."

"Don't go promising things like that!" says Ratio.

"Too late," says Birthday. "I already did. You know what this means, right? Now you have to keep it."

"_Birthday_—"

Birthday tilts his head toward Gasquet. "Look."

Ratio does.

He's seeing what Birthday's seeing, now: Gasquet stunned into silence, eye wide and cheeks in high colour. Gasquet's lips move like they're trying to speak, but no words are formed. Slowly, Gasquet closes his eye, takes a deep breath, and then grins so wide his cheekbones threaten to pop out of his skin.

"Heh," says Gasquet. "Seems like this old man still has something to look forward to."

"Nah, gramps," says Birthday. "Love the necklace – you're pretty cool. Still, I bet Ratio's older than you."

Ratio looks like he doesn't know whether he wants to say _That doesn't make any sense_ or _You were born before me, Birthday_. A shifting in the corner of Birthday's eye alerts him to Art, who's taken half a step closer.

"Birthday, was it?" asks Art.

"The one and only," says Birthday.

Art doesn't smile. A smile alone can't describe the rush of satisfaction sending warmth and confidence bursting across the edges of Birthday's consciousness like sparks in a windstorm.

So Art makes that strange expression that's magic and electricity, and says, "Thank you."

..._Damn_ son.

Birthday resists the urge to shuffle, and wonders if that charisma could be used as a weapon – a chick-picking weapon. Maybe bottled into some sort of spray? _Electromagnetism, _by Art. Perfect.

(Of course, Ratio, being Ratio, always knows when Birthday starts to contemplate stupid things, so Birthday's subject to an unimpressed stare. Birthday still makes a note to ask Art about it later.)

After a quick comment to Gasquet about some case files and pages, Art excuses himself politely before leaving.

"Sooo," says Birthday, "got any hobbies and stuff, Mr. Cool? Ratio needs some."

"Mr. Cool?" echoes Gasquet. "Eh, sure, but they're a little old-fashioned..."

"_Kurofune_."

Two heads swivel toward Ratio. Ratio's eye twitches, and he glances away. "You—were going to see it. With Miwako. Did you ever...?"

"...No."

"They're – bringing it back in Osaka next month," says Ratio.

Birthday puts aside the obvious question of what it is or how Ratio knows, recognising a chance when he sees one. "Then let's all go!"

"What?" says Ratio.

"To watch it, duh," says Birthday. "You, Mr. Cool, me – and hey, we can even drag Art along or something. Uh, are you guys free next month?"

"Depends how soon we can wrap this current case up," says Gasquet.

"_Birthday_."

Birthday looks to Ratio, and Ratio is frowning.

"What?" says Birthday.

"I appreciate it, but... you don't need to try force your—"

"Life's too short _not_ to try new things."

Ratio's cut off before he can get in another reply.

"Going together..." says Gasquet. "I would like that. It's been fifteen years since I've seen an opera."

Birthday blinks. "Wait, _what?_"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," says Ratio. "'The Black Ships' is opera. You _fell asleep and snored_ the last time we went to a theatre."

...So maybe he did.

"S-so what?" Birthday grins. It's a little weaker than he'd like it to be. "Chicks love a guy who's into that stuff. Opera."

Gasquet's laughter follows Birthday all the way home.

* * *

Birthday looks at Ratio, how a huge weight has been lifted from his conscience – the full depths of which he can't see, but knows is there—and realises that he's looking forward to next month too.

He tries ignoring the thunderclouds billowing darkness out of the horizon. He hasn't had an attack for weeks, and he'd hidden the last one so well that Ratio doesn't know.

Just because the weather forecast says that it's going to be rain, rain and more rain, doesn't mean it's a sign.

The weather is the weather, and has nothing to do with anything that isn't itself.

Birthday's going to be fine.

* * *

"Hey, hold up," says Birthday. "Aren't you going to tell me about the story behind this Miwako?"

* * *

It's nearing nightfall by the time they return to Anemone. Momoka looks over the collection of six photos they'd taken, five plus an extra to make up for the one they'd lost, body language perfectly neutral and giving nothing away.

Feng'd been very generous once they understood that all he wanted was time to himself without investigators looking his way. That didn't mean he'd been trusting. He may have hitched a ride in Ratio's car, but he'd always sat directly behind Birthday – a convenient hostage, should either of them have had anything sinister planned.

(Ratio remembers Feng's gait, the way he smoothly phases from one location to another rather than haltingly walk; his moniker extends not only to fickle emotions but to his very person.)

If Momoka notices that the photos had been staged, she makes no comment. Yamashita Park, Minato Mirai, eating ice-cream on a random street in Isogo Ward... shots chosen by Feng, and locations undoubtedly offbeat to his regular rhythm.

"Again," says Ratio, "we apologise for losing the photo we initially received."

"It's fine," replies Momoka. She flips through the photos again. Convenience store, Shin-Yokohama Station. "These are more than satisfactory."

Momoka opens a drawer, then hands them an envelope. Ratio takes it and looks inside; she's paid them in cash. He puts the envelope in one of his pockets.

"May I ask where Birthday is?" says Momoka, suddenly.

Ratio tilts his head to where he's parked the car. "He isn't feeling too well."

Which is partly true, but mostly means that Birthday's poker face is far too questionable in front of someone as... _well-proportioned_ as Momoka.

"I see," says Momoka, and she smiles. "I wish him the best recovery. The two of you are really something."

Ratio bows, thanks her, and takes his leave. The bell in the doorway chimes softly behind him.

He misses the way Momoka slides a finger across one of the photos, tracing the edge of a face frozen in time.

"So," she muses. "This is who you're working with, Moral."

* * *

**/TBC/**


	7. 06

"Another one from that guy, eh?"

It's more an off-hand comment than anything requiring an answer, so Gasquet doesn't expect Art to reply. The restaurant's kitchen is a cross between a spaceship and a bunker; it's cramped, with walkways barely wide enough to fit a person and a half, and lit with sterile white light from square panels in the ceiling. Every surface from the waist up is the silky sheen of stainless steel, interrupted only by the range hood's great gaping maw to one side of the room. They're followed by five sets of blurry reflections as they're escorted to the freezer.

Art knows the lead investigator. Haneda's worked with him on many occasions, Gasquet even more, a dependable man nearing forty years old with a wife and young daughter. There'd been no time for anything other than brief greetings when Art and Gasquet had arrived.

The first thing Art notices beyond the forensics assigned to the site is the small amount of blood.

"I take it the victim wasn't killed here?" says Art.

"Most likely not," is Haneda's reply. "That's all the blood there is in the area. The victim was strangled before his head was cut open, with initial estimations at about one or two o'clock this morning. We're still searching for the object used to cut open the skull, and the scene of the crime."

Art glances at the body. He doesn't dwell on the carmine tracks of dried blood running down the face and pooling onto clothes, the dark bruise ringed around its neck or how the skull is undoubtedly empty. Any bubbling disgust is squashed immediately, instantly redirected to determination.

All the more reason to catch the Minimum Holder serial killer.

Art senses more than sees Gasquet shift beside him. "Do we have an ID on the victim?"

"Not yet. There were no personal belongings with him," says Haneda. "Inspector Nagaki sends his apologies for not being here to meet you two at the moment and expects to finish interviewing in an hour – is there anything either of you wanted to investigate specifically?"

"Nothing at the moment," says Art. "Mr. Gasquet?"

"None on my end."

Art turns back to Haneda and gives a slight bow. "Thanks for all your work. We'll leave this in your hands," he says. "Would you like me to let your family know you'll be off-shift later than usual today?"

Haneda doesn't smile, because it's hard to feel anything at a crime scene aside the bitter churning which accompanies loss of human life, but his lips do twitch a little in response.

"You know us too well, Superintendent."

All Art thinks, as he and Gasquet leave for the station again – in the wake of another life and mind stolen by a criminal they've been chasing with motives they still have no leads on – is that sometimes—

_(because you have no Minimum)_

—knowing his people is the only thing he has the power to do.

* * *

Sometimes Art is grateful that Gasquet knows how to drive.

It's not something that needs to be said; Gasquet'd extended his hand for the keys, and Art had handed them across without complaint or asking why.

The car stalls at a traffic light, windows gather dotted raindrops as the weather accompanies them in mourning – even if bright umbrellas open one by one in the streets around them. Bursts of colour in a world of grey, held by people who don't know how lucky they are to still be alive. People who'd live their lives, unaware of the existence of the Minimum.

Gasquet takes the opportunity to glance at Art. Art's leaning on his knuckles, looking out the window – so still that it wouldn't be a surprise if he weren't breathing.

Sometimes it's all too easy to forget that, for all his poise and elegance, Gasquet'd only met Art as an eighteen-year-old graduate three years ago.

"He's shown excellent talent," the former Superintendent had said, to a Gasquet that knew of Facultas graduates' exceptional academic standards but hadn't understood at the time just what it meant for someone so young to have learnt so much. "We've given him some cases – basics, mostly, so there's a reason to promote him to the rank we need him to be – and you've been selected to help him."

"Me, sir?" Gasquet'd asked.

"You were a Major for the Japanese Self Defence Forces, but more importantly, you already know about Minimum."

Sometimes, Gasquet wonders how many others had also been a possible candidate, and how close he'd been to never knowing Art at all. Art, who ate so many sweets it's a wonder he isn't made of sugar himself; Art, who he could tell stories to for hours on end -

Art. The man who'd graduated from Facultas Academy without a Minimum of his own.

The traffic lights change to green. The world stops holding its breath, and lets them drive on.

"Art," says Gasquet. "If you need me, I'm here."

There's a short pause. They're nearly back at the police's headquarters. Art straightens as if he's just remembered his existence, and brushes a hand quickly through his hair.

"I—" begins Art. He clears his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Gasquet. I'll – keep it in mind. For now we have to finish what we can, until Inspector Nagaki has gathered more information."

Gasquet nods, even though he knows. Art's reminding himself more.

"We should be receiving the last few reports for the serial bombing case today, correct?" asks Art.

"Right. They finished searching Tachikawa's home yesterday. The report for his fiancée's place should be here in a few hours."

"Tachikawa's report is in?"

"It was when you were briefed about this incident. I think it's in the glove box."

The glove box is clicked open. There's the sound of rustling pages.

"Mr. Gasquet, you aren't supposed to take these documents out of the building," says Art. He's smiling; Gasquet can hear it.

"Put them back, then." says Gasquet.

"Maybe later. I may as well read them now."

Gasquet takes the turn into the station's entrance; the building watches over them, a tower inlaid with a grid of dark square windows, mounted atop an entrance sentried by great stone supports. At the gate booth, the stationed officers wave at them through the rain. The car slows.

"Only _you'd_ try working in these conditions, Art—"

He's cut off by a sharp knock on the passenger side window. It's not an officer; Gasquet doesn't recognise the person in the bright street clothes until Art opens the window enough for the man to lean down. The handle of a black umbrella rests against his shoulder.

Gasquet sees brown hair and three bandages, and understands immediately.

"Hey, Art," says Feng.

"What are you doing here?" says Art.

Feng grins. His eyes flicker briefly to Gasquet; any doubt that the man isn't working with Mao is dispelled immediately. They have the same gaze: _Right now, I know more than you_.

"I can't visit my favourite officer?" asks Feng rhetorically. "I have some information about this morning's incident you might like. Are you free?"

"How long are we talking about?"

A bandage is scratched thoughtfully. "Two, maybe three hours tops?"

"I..."

"No cost, just some of your time," says Feng. "Then you'll get the victim's ID. The police won't get a missing persons report for days if a guy has no family to report him missing."

Art turns around. "Mr. Gasquet?"

"I trust your judgement," says Gasquet. He doesn't mention how he has trouble focusing on Feng's smile – it leeches away his life and energy, weighs him down, makes jokes about his age come true. "If it's necessary, I can handle things for a few hours."

Art nods. "Thank you, Mr. Gasquet."

When Art opens the door, and Feng hops back before offering him the empty space under his umbrella, Gasquet only stares. Art doesn't step out immediately, however; he returns the report back to the glove box. The movement is used to hide adjusting his collar, allowing Gasquet to see the firearm nested securely in its holster, and Art catches his eye as if to say, _don't worry. I'm not going in blind._

It's some small comfort, but not enough.

"I'll be in the archives until you get back," says Gasquet, softly so he's not overheard. "You can always call."

"I know," says Art. "I do have you on speed dial."

Gasquet's still watching them when they leave. Feng waves cheekily, then tips back the umbrella so the black canopy swallows Art's head into shadow. A mass makes itself present in Gasquet's rear-view mirror, another police car requesting entry into the premesis. Gasquet drives inside to let it pass.

By the time he's parked the vehicle, the two have disappeared altogether.

* * *

"Why do you need me?"

It's slightly awkward sharing the same umbrella with Nice, only because the man's apparently never learnt how to share an umbrella before; he keeps twirling it between his fingers with no regard for how Art's hair could be stuck in its ribs, and he keeps it tilted at all the wrong angles. Thankfully, the rain's light enough that Art's suit is only gently sprinkled, despite being intense enough to be a nuisance when falling into his eyes.

Nice shrugs, and the umbrella moves with him. Water falls onto Art's forehead.

(Art _really_ shouldn't have left his umbrella in his office, or foregone borrowing Gasquet's instead.)

"Why not?" says Nice.

"That's what you said after I asked for your name," says Art.

"I didn't think you'd remember something like that."

Art does. It'd been the reply after asking if Nice, too, had once attended Facultas. "Why not?", a reaction unusual.

For a moment, surrounded by streets that should be familiar but were alien amidst rain and the engima's presence beside him, Art wonders where his guard has gone – only to find it's still there. Art watches how Nice stretches his other hand out in the rain, then waves it around to catch as many raindrops he can in his palm. There's so much radiance in that smile that Art finds himself copying it unconsciously.

Nice is having fun.

There are a few reasons for Art to deny him of it, but he decides against them. Art will play his game for a few hours today.

"Where are we going?" asks Art, once they've stopped at a crossing. The bright traffic lights cut through thick grey air. A scooter speeds past, its slipstream pressing his trousers against his legs.

"To catch a bus."

"A bus?"

"There's a café in Minamisaiwai that makes great coffee. Or if you'd like, we can always walk. It'd take about forty minutes to get there. Have you had breakfast?"

"I—have," says Art, slightly overwhelmed by the sudden change in topic. He thinks back to the slice of toast he'd grabbed in his hurry, after learning the serial killer had struck again. "And either method of transport is fine."

"Okay," says Nice. "Walking it is, then."

"Didn't you say...?"

"Today's a beautiful day."

Art glances across. The sky is dispirited and crying, but Nice isn't joking.

"It's raining," says Art.

"Yes," agrees Nice. "So there aren't that many people who idle around. It's not windy, nor is it raining hard enough that an umbrella can't keep the worst of it away. Plus, it's not disgustingly hot and the air feels fresher. Win-win."

Art surprises himself when he huffs; half a laugh.

"That's an interesting logic," he says.

Apparently he's not convincing enough, since he's subject to a frown and affronted stare. "What do _you_ think an ideal day is, then?"

"Maybe one where there are no cases left."

"You'd be out of a job," Nice points out.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

There's no response until they reach their destination.

* * *

Café Nowhere is a small establishment that glows on the side of the road. The doors give way to a wonderland of butterscotch floors and caramel walls, and welcoming warm air is quick to replace wet and grey reality. It's late enough on a working day that the café is empty.

Nice drops his umbrella unceremoniously into the basket at the entrance. By the time it stills, they're greeted by a young girl with glasses and intelligent eyes.

Curiously enough, she also has a tail.

"Another meeting, Nice?" she asks.

"Yep," Nice replies. He leans aside to wave at a heavyset man in the process of grinding coffee beans by hand. "Yo, Master."

Master nods a greeting in return. He doesn't need to speak to maintain a silent presence in the room, and reminds Art of Gasquet; hard working and reliable.

"Welcome," says the girl, to Art directly. "Please, follow me."

A few strides later, Nice and Art have been escorted to a table by the window, and two menus are placed between them. Nice takes a seat formally, back straight and shoulders level, and it's an interesting contrast to the casual ease by which he'd greeted the café's staff. Art realises he's done the same.

"I didn't take you for an idealist," comments Nice.

Art scans the cake selection on the menu idly. "I don't think I am."

"Huh."

A movement in the corner of Art's eye catches his attention. The girl's holding a pen atop a pad with the same enthusiasm as her smile. Her tail is swishing slowly as she waits to take their order.

Art chooses the coffee and cake set. Hot or cold coffee? Hot, please. Nice sits back in his chair and says something to her in a foreign language. It takes a while for Art to recognise it as German; the girl takes just as long to formulate a reply. Art doesn't need to know the language to hear how the guttural phonetics are harder for her to match compared to him.

The girl excuses herself from the table, and Art stares at her as she returns to the bar.

Nice notices his gaze.

"That's Koneko," says Nice. "She's studying to be a polyglot. Something about it being good for customer service or whatever. I tutor her in my spare time."

That hadn't been Art's question. "Her tail..."

"Ah, that. That's magic."

"By which you mean you're not going to tell me?"

"Bingo. I'm sure you can figure it out, Superintendent."

Art's still puzzling by the time Koneko brings their orders to them: his coffee and chocolate cake, and—

Nice has ordered a glass of milk.

While Art carefully counts the sugar cubes he adds to his drink – not so little that the coffee would be bitter, but not so many that it would overpower the taste of the cake – he realises he's starting to associate the definition of unpredictability with Nice more and more.

He checks the time. Nice's definition of "forty minutes" turns out to only apply at a brisk walk, as over an hour has passed already. Art will forego most of his break later.

"Why?" asks Art.

"Why what?"

"You'd prefer my time instead of any other payment."

Nice tilts his head. "Why not? I was bored. Hajime's at work. You're really interesting. Since Mao came back with your vic's ID in the latest batch of data, I thought I'd kill some time."

"That's it?"

"Should I have said something else?"

...Was Art expecting anything?

Art turns his attention to the coffee. Café Nowhere's blend is just as good as Nice had said it would be.

"You always surprise me," says Nice, suddenly.

Art spears a portion of the cake with his fork. There's not much to say in reply. He wonders how much information Nice is willing to share.

"When did you learn German?" asks Art.

"Eight years ago."

"Facultas?"

"Where else?"

A pause is hidden by contemplative chewing. Nice has leant forward at some point, and he wears an expression like he knows what Art's doing and is only humouring him accordingly.

There are certainly worse ways to pass the next – hour and a half? One hour and thirty-two minutes.

Art swallows and chooses his words carefully. "Facultas has never had a student called 'Nice'."

"Really?" says Nice. "I did—" a quick intake of breath, so brief Art may have imagined it, "—quit partway. Were you checking the lists of graduates they send every year?"

"...No. I – had access to their entire student history, and the list of all Holders they know. Of both branches in Japan."

The Minimum Agency had been slow to respond to his request, but the board of bureaucrats and executive officers had eventually conceded a few weeks ago. Even they could not deny the risk of the Minimum Holder serial killer running around the country. Art had checked for Nice's name in the directory as soon as their last meeting had come to a close, as well as Hajime's.

Neither had been there.

Nice starts scratching one of his bandages again. "I'm impressed, but unsurprised."

"Unsurprised?"

"You could say I was a... special case. I haven't lied – Nice is the name they gave me when I was enrolled there. Never bothered changing it again."

"I see," says Art. He wonders if Nice has realised his body language has become defensive, or if it's entirely subconscious; the man is looking away, watching a film only screening to himself, and his scratching has moved to the bridge of his nose so his hand blocks part of his face from view.

The hand drops and the eyes trail back to Art by the time half the cake is gone.

"Skill," says Nice.

Art's fingers freeze. The handle of the coffee cup drops – fortunately, it hadn't yet been raised.

Nice continues. "He was forced to leave Facultas after being unable to manifest a Minimum. Later, he was killed by terrorists on a bus. That's why you became a Superintendent, isn't it?"

"How did you—"

"I asked Mao."

Another flashback of their prior meeting makes itself known. A reference to Mao, linked to Art's personal details, again. Last time, it had been about his address—an address, and details about Tachikawa Kenta's arrest that, according to Nice, Chinen Ayami shouldn't have known.

Art's still searching for the source of the leak. Hopefully the search of her house will deliver results.

However—

"Where does Mao get his information from?" asks Art. It's slightly more aggressive than he intends.

"Huh," says Nice. "So you _do_ have information you consider private."

"Please answer the question."

"He gets it from me."

Art blinks; "_You...?_"

Casually, as if he's in the company of an old friend rather than one of the most powerful police officers in the country, Nice picks up the half-empty glass of milk and moves it aside. Using his pointer finger, he draws a line toward him where it used to be.

"Data is raw facts, simple statistics," he says, tapping the surface of the table on one side of the line. "Information," and the finger is moved to the other, "is when that data is processed into something useful. The time in which you leave work and which traffic lights you stop at afterwards are data points when seen individually. Added context, it's information that describes your working hours and the route you take home. I do this synthesizing for Mao, just on a much more complicated level, so that's where he gets his information."

"Those are computing definitions," says Art.

"They are."

"That's not what I'm asking. How do you collect the data?"

"I do my own private investigation, but most of it's from Mao."

"And Mao...?"

"Mao," says Nice, "has his Minimum."

Of course. It always comes back to the Minimum; Art wonders how such a power is still kept secret from the rest of society.

Art takes a sip of coffee. The sound of rain against the window intensifies as the skies release their payload. Soon, Art can't even see the street beyond the diffused headlamps of cars driving by.

Art's coffee is cooling. It's almost too sweet now, so he drinks it all.

"What is it?" he asks.

"A secret."

"A secret?" —After everything else Nice has said?

"It just speeds up our ability to gather data. He's helped us a lot, so it's not my place to tell."

"Then would you know anything about the leak in our forces?"

Nice closes his eyes. It's only because Art's checking the time that he knows twenty seconds pass before the eyes open. They're blank, pupils reflecting gold from the lights above, looking at Art but not seeing him.

Then Nice downs the last of his milk, and his eyes return to normal.

"No," he says. "Mao doesn't like gathering police information, so none of the data I have is conclusive. Is that a request you want me to take?"

Art finishes the rest of the cake.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he says, cautious.

There's honest surprise; Nice's eyebrows shoot upwards. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"About Feng."

"Only that he's rumoured to work with Mao," admits Art. "And that Mao is the best at information gathering."

"Well then," says Nice. He leans forward, closing the distance as lovers share secrets, lips pulled apart in a smirk supremely smug. "There's one person in Yokohama that can find the unfindable."

"That would be you?"

Nice draws back. The smirk is still there. "That would be me."

"I see," says Art. "It was evident the moment you drew it out so dramatically."

"Come on, what do you want from me?"

"That should be obvious." Art glances at the window; the clouds have moved, and the rain has let up, briefly. "More than an hour and forty minutes have passed. We have both finished eating. Were you intending on leaving me here or walking back?"

"In the mood to walk?"

"All I would like is the victim's ID."

"Man," says Nice. "You're a tough crowd. Okay, Mr. I-Didn't-Bring-My-Umbrella, I'll walk you back and give you the guy's ID once we get there. Let's go."

Art isn't given any more warning; by the time Nice finishes speaking, he's already up and out of his chair. Art follows, stopping once to pay for his food but receiving the shake of a head in response. At some point, Nice has handled both payments already.

By the time Art reaches the door, Nice is waiting. He's spinning his umbrella lazily in the air and on the tail end of a phone call.

"—_I know, I know_," says Nice. He isn't speaking in Japanese. "_Got it. He's here, talk to you later._"

Nice hangs up.

"That was..." begins Art.

"Chinese," says Nice. The phone is put into his pocket; then the umbrella springs open as it's unfurled, sending stray water droplets landing in the doorway. He gestures for Art to join him, and Art does. "Didn't you learn it?"

"Yes," Art replies automatically. "It was my third language."

"Same here."

And without anything else said, they step out onto the sidewalk together.

* * *

"So," says Nice, a little more than ten minutes into their journey, "did you want me to investigate?"

"I'll consider it. However..."

"What's up?"

"Please do not pull any of your stunts again. Next time, I may seriously have to arrest you."

Nice looks at him blankly. "For what?"

"Breaking into headquarters, breaking into my apartment, suppression of evidence..." The confusion is still there. Art feels his own expression slowly mirroring him. "Haven't you learnt it? The legal codes are required reading at Facultas."

There's a long silence. Nice is forced to look away when he nearly walks into a tree.

"...Right," says Nice. "But I had reasons."

He says the words so earnestly that he's convinced they're enough to keep him out of trouble. Perhaps it's that earnestness that prompts Art to reply.

"Are they justifiable grounds?"

"They were emergencies, weren't they? I was trying to save your life, for one, and I didn't know how long it would take to get the evidence to you either—"

"The stopwatch?"

"Yeah."

Art remembers the report he'd been reading in the car before Nice had appeared. The gears click into position.

"That wouldn't have anything to do with the unpaid loans Tachikawa had with Miraki Lending, would it?" asks Art.

"Sharp," says Nice. "It may have contributed. I didn't manage to thank you for arresting him, so thanks for that. Good thing Hajime probably wanted to pay you back for that too... I don't think she was scheduled to visit Sato until a few days later. By the way, do you own earplugs? Damaged hearing never heals."

"I do, but had no opportunity to wear them," is Art's reply to the remark about earplugs – he's adjusting slightly better to Nice's leaps of logic, as abrupt as they are. "Thank you for the evidence. Please use official channels in the future."

"Sure, sure."

Nice stretches his free hand past the umbrella's shadow to check the rainfall, then whips the umbrella around before pulling it closed. The rain's stopped, though grey clouds haven't vanished entirely, and clouds even darker are positioned ready to roll in.

In the calm before the storm, Nice is humming.

"Mind if I borrow your brain for a bit?" he asks, a while later.

"Borrow..." echoes Art. "Pardon?"

Nice smiles.

"Just a little theoretical experiment, that's all," the reply. "And then, I'd like to make you an offer."

* * *

Chinen Ayami used the Metal-Force Minimum when trying to take Art's life.

Chinen Ayami isn't in the directory of Minimum Holders, and has never attended either Facultas.

It had been nothing but gut feeling when he'd checked the directory after Art'd left with Feng. And whilst it's true that the Minimum Agency could not possibly know every single Holder until they made themselves known, despite having several divisions dedicated to the discovery and recording of stray Holders in Japan, Gasquet's gut tells him there's something he's missing.

When Gasquet receives word that the search of her residence has been completed, and an officer is waiting to report, he neatly marks the page he's reading into memory and heads for his office immediately.

Multiple instances of the same Minimum are rare, but not impossible. Gasquet'd returned to the archives to cross-reference the directory and make notes of all duplications. Gasquet leafs through the notes as the elevator rises high into the sky.

"Sir," says the detective assigned. They exchange greetings. Then, she delivers her report and a summary before being excused.

Gasquet had been absently adjusting the frame on his desk with one hand, reading the report with the other, when a certain line catches his attention. Chinen Ayami's parents had tried enrolling her in Facultas at a young age, but she had been refused. It's only because Gasquet knows about the secret of the Minimum that he understands the implications: _Chinen Ayami never possessed the Minimum Factor._

The frame shudders, tips forward, and lies still.

"Then how does she have a Minimum..." Gasquet murmurs. He stands the frame again. A younger version of himself and a pale woman in a hospital bed – sickly but smiling – look back toward him. The ghost of Ratio from fifteen years ago is reflected off metal bars, in the process of taking the photo. "Miwako, do you think it's possible...?"

A presence in front of his desk pulls him out of his thoughts. It's Art, slightly rained upon but returned within the promised time.

"Mr. Gasquet?" he asks.

"Welcome back," says Gasquet. "How'd it go?"

"It was... alright."

"Did he give us a name?"

"He – he did. Actually," says Art, "I was hoping if... are you busy?"

Gasquet closes the report. "Not at all. What's up?"

"Nothing much. I just want to ask you something."

"Ask away."

Art cocks his head aside. "Let's go somewhere else first."

It's easily that Gasquet agrees. What isn't as easy is recognising Art's gait when he follows; he walks with a little more shoulders and a greater twitchiness in his hands. Whatever Art has on his mind has affected him greatly.

Fortunately the rain has stopped enough that neither of them need umbrellas, though only Art has one.

They leave the building and head down the street. There's a direction to Art's strides that suggests he isn't aimless, so Gasquet quells his surprise. A few turns later, they arrive at a small park, where metal play equipment grows from a ground of loose gravel. On sunny days it would be a haven for children, bubbling with laughter and full of life. Today, cast upon a backdrop of grey, bright paints die to dull. Thick globules of water cling to every surface, promising wet hands and soaked clothes. After the rain, reluctance proliferates and hesitation keeps people away.

Art walks to the swing set. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white handkerchief before wiping one of the units dry. When he takes a seat, the chains jingle, and a few drops of water fall from the bar overhead to land in his hair.

They're ignored.

Art offers the handkerchief to Gasquet. Gasquet shakes his head and chooses to stand on a reasonably dry patch of ground next to him.

"What a day to come out here," he remarks, and whistles.

"Yes," says Art. "Don't you think it's beautiful?"

Gasquet can't help but chortle. "Beautiful? Your shoes are being ruined."

The ground beneath the swings is mostly mud, save for a thin rubber mat for traction. Art looks down as if realising for the first time, then smiles.

"Ah," says Art. "They are."

Gasquet laughs.

"So?" asks Gasquet, once he's managed to calm down. "What was it you wanted to ask?"

At first, Art doesn't answer. He tentatively pushes against the ground, only for the chain to screak above him. The swing's clearly not intended for use by a person of his size.

Then Art turns to look at him, and Gasquet finds himself hypnotised by that gaze of piercing purple.

"If you could become a Minimum Holder," he says, "what would you choose to do?"

* * *

**06: mirror, mirror**

**/TBC/**


	8. 07

_Sorry for the wait, exams soon. No hiatus, because this fic is eating me alive (and i never went through with the last two _at all_), but delays may continue for a while._

* * *

There's a sudden stillness in the air, and Gasquet tastes it. It tastes of cold, and wet, after-shadows of rain which has passed and gone. Perhaps there had been traffic rushing in the distance before Art had spoken, but there's nothing now. The only sound that remains is the swell of each breath that pass half-open lips, echoing between his ears. It's loud.

Too loud, in the bubble of silence where only he and Art remain.

_If you could become a Minimum Holder, what would you choose to do?_

"Did something happen?" says Gasquet.

Art breaks eye-contact and wraps an arm around one of the swing's chains. He leans into the hold.

"Not really," he says. "Maybe I should ask you. Did you figure something out, Mr. Gasquet?"

"The report for the search of Chinen's house came in. They found correspondence about a rejection from Facultas."

"Oh?"

"So she has a Minimum despite never showing its potential."

Art peers up at him curiously, head tilted to one side. It's probably intended as silent encouragement to continue, but to Gasquet, the oddity of the situation settles in instead. Art's on a swing. A black umbrella hangs off one arm. The park has just been rained on. His shoes are covered with mud.

It's definitely not where Gasquet'd expected to find himself when he offered his support. Still, he remembers they're not in the office and they're out in the open, and puts all thoughts of the case aside for when they return.

Art had brought him out, which means that Art needs him.

"Why are you thinking about being a Holder all of a sudden?" says Gasquet.

"Consider it a bit of a... theoretical experiment, Mr. Gasquet," Art replies. "If you could become one, would you? Wouldn't it be useful if you could, say, touch an object and determine all of its properties just by fulfilling some trivial activation condition? Or, be granted with the ability to entrap a suspect without even closing the distance?"

"I... suppose it would be."

"Then would you want to be one?"

"When you ask something in that way, why would anyone not want to?"

"Mmm."

Art reaches into his jacket for a small black box. The action is strange. Gasquet's gut twists, uneasy. He doesn't know why. Everything is normal and nothing has changed.

There are no _reasons_ why.

[ _– wr—_ ]

One chocolate is taken. The rest are offered to Gasquet. A smile. "Would you like one?"

The action brings the umbrella on Art's arm closer. It's wet, having been recently been used. The chocolates are ignored.

"Did he give that to you?" says Gasquet.

Art blinks. "Sorry?"

"That umbrella. Yours has a straight handle, if I recall."

"I didn't think you'd notice," says Art. "Very observant, Mr. Gasquet."

Gasquet's gut relaxes briefly, though the unease is not entirely gone. "I'm aware he's helped us before," he says, "but would you mind getting it inspected before you use it?"

"Inspected? Why?"

_Because I don't trust him with your life_, thinks Gasquet, remembering the man and his parasitic smile. "I don't think he's who he seems to be."

"Of course not," says Art. "After all, he's _Nice-kun_."

"Nice?"

"Nice."

"It'd help if you explain what I'm missing here."

"There is nothing to miss, Mr. Gasquet," says Art. "Nice is nice. That is who he is and will always be. Do you... not like him? _Nice-kun?_"

Despite the fact that Art is sitting on a swing too low to the ground, and Gasquet is standing beside him, Art's stare is so intense that an invisible hand commands Gasquet to bow down. Eye-level is not enough. The only acceptable answer is to prostrate himself against the ground, _dogeza_.

Gasquet's stomach curls.

"...Art," says Gasquet. "What did Feng say to you?"

"That's right, that is what he is calling himself now," comments Art. The pressure lifts briefly when Art looks away, but returns when he glances back. "Perhaps I should rephrase my question, then, Mr. Gasquet: do you not like Feng?"

"He—" The words catch in Gasquet's throat. "Hasn't earnt my respect."

"Oh," the reply.

The box of chocolates is closed; elegant fingers linger upon its edge. As Art rises to his feet, the wind picks up in unison, and the backwards roll of his neck and shoulders is at once like a cat uncurling from deepest sleep and the dance of ancient magic summoning storm clouds ever darker – controlling even the will of Nature herself, the awakening of not a god, but a force beyond even the gods' comprehension.

[ _—wrong..._ ]

He stares up at the sky. "Mr. Gasquet?"

"Yes?"

"You know... I don't really care about you."

Time stops. _Freeze._

Gasquet forces up from his lungs a choking laugh. "Hey, Art, even you should know that kind of thing isn't funny."

"But it's true. I don't care."

"Art—"

"No," says Art, and he turns around. There's nothing on his face except disdain and an unsatisfied frown. The pieces click into place: _this_ is why they're not back at the office.

_This_ is the conversation which Art has been fighting.

And Art is not joking.

"I never needed you, Mr. Gasquet," Art says. "Ever, if at all."

_Liar_, thinks Gasquet. One of his clearest memories is of their fourth case together, but the first with the sickening scent of death and a decomposing body present at the scene. Art had conducted himself professionally despite a voice faintly quavering, and Gasquet'd spotted for him whilst he was throwing up after.

So many times over the past three years did Art drop his guard and smile that – _what is there to doubt?_ Art's always needed him. But something's changed.

_That is what he is calling himself now._

"You've known Feng before," says Gasquet.

Art perks up, beams. "Of course!"

"Did he make you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Try and split us apart."

There's a pause. Art stares at him, disbelieving. The silence stretches for so long that the dreadful whispers of doubt start seeping through cracks and into Gasquet's skin. Art really didn't care about him. Art's just been acting all along, in order to use him. _Art_—

Gasquet unconsciously begins to finger the bulb at the end of his cane.

[ _listen_ ]

He doesn't expect Art to walk over, nor the arms which reach out and wrap around his shoulders. It's the first time Art's ever initiated any kind of physical contact. The hug is warm. Soft hair caresses Gasquet's cheek. Art smells of flowers.

Fingers creep up to Gasquet's neck, tapping idly. Gasquet feels the movement of his chest when Art sighs.

"Oh, Mr. Gasquet," Art breathes in his ear. "I pity you, you know."

"You, Art?" says Gasquet. "Pity?"

"There is so much in this world you still do not understand."

"Art, what the hell are you—"

"Shame. I suppose I won't be doing you a favour after all."

It's too late when the point of a needle touches the side of Gasquet's neck, where the fingers had once been searching for his pulse – and below that, his veins. There's no time to do anything before the needle breaches his skin, and Gasquet has no doubt that the jolts of frost diving across his nerves are a result of some injection, amidst the blazing pain of penetration and betrayal.

_Threat._

Nothing but sheer adrenaline and the muscle memory of training allows Gasquet to throw Art off his shoulders and pin him to the ground. It had been a syringe. Gasquet twists the arm back, forcing the hand to let go of the device. The syringe's plunger is half-depressed. Its missing contents are swimming within Gasquet's body.

Art coughs from a face full of gravel and water. The ground is wet. His umbrella lies a few metres away.

Now that his facial features are obscured, Gasquet once again notices all the wrong body language he'd dismissed before, and his gut finally offers its reason.

[ _Minimum._ ]

Gasquet's transported to a time when he'd still been a part of the military, and remembers one of many field exercises overseen by great Mt. Fuji. A simulated battlefield of few trees and sparse bushland, where the only protection a person had was their intuition and training against shadows that weren't shadows but—

Enemy units in camouflage gear.

Keenly aware he had at most a minute, perhaps, to live, Gasquet shifts his grip and body weight so that he could keep his captive restrained with one arm. His free hand scrambles for his phone.

Art is first on his speed dial.

Gasquet doesn't wait for the call to be answered. "Who are you?" he says, down to his captive.

No answer. The ringback tone stops trilling; the call is in session. Art will hear their exchange, and Art will know there's been trouble.

The skies begin to darken.

"You aren't Art," says Gasquet. "Who are you? What do you—"

Gasquet's phone slips from his fingers and drops to the ground. It occurs to him that it's not the skies which are darkening but his own vision, heavy curtains drawn over parts of his mind and parts of his body.

One by one, his limbs shut down. The skies rise further away, and nothing but terror and a fading heartbeat accompanies him in freefall. He tries to get up. None of his limbs obey him. Gasquet's a rapidly shrinking bubble of panic tied to a doll's body that he can't control.

It's too easy for the fake Art to set himself free. He wipes across his cheeks with the back of a sleeve, and the resulting trail of dirt slices his face into the two people who make up his expression: Art's polite smile, and a madman's crazed, unblinking stare.

He walks over to the phone, picks it up, and disconnects the call.

"How troublesome," says the fake Art. "Fortunately we have the Minimum. And here I'd thought you'd be a worthy one for our world."

[ _Our?_ ]

Images flash; life as a demo reel. Behind them, to Gasquet, the fake Art is no longer alone. Next to him is Feng, beneath a second black umbrella.

The same umbrella Feng'd held before – when he'd taken the real Art away.

_I have some information about this morning's incident you might like. Are you free?_

Feng knew the identity of a victim yet to be identified beyond a head sawed open; a victim of the Minimum Holder serial killer.

_How long are we talking about?_

Two to three hours. More than enough for a fake to take his place.

—More than enough to keep the real Art away.

A final burst of energy rushes through a fading consciousness, a sharp murmur of realisation, a last gift to a dying man.

"Then," Gasquet rasps, "getting close to Art..."

The last thing Gasquet sees is Art crouching down toward him, head wreathed in white light illuminated by the sun. His expression is angelic, radiant, carrying the comforting warmth of a thousand blankets slowly bestowing smothering sleep.

The last thing Gasquet feels is a hand running through his hair, tucking stray strands lovingly behind one ear. He tastes the bitterness of rainwater mixed with dirt, a final cocktail adorned with the scent of sweet nectar, saluting departure.

The last thing Gasquet hears is a congratulatory whisper. "Well done." _Thanks for your work._

—and he replies,_ You're welcome._

* * *

**07: liar [ **_**crier **_**]**

* * *

The unnatural stillness vanishes, and the traffic on the roads return to normal. People along the street materialise back into existence, conducting their daily lives, oblivious to the death which has just occurred.

A slow clapping follows.

Momoka stands up from a stool which had been her seat in the gallery, and walks toward the swings. The rain begins to pick up again as new clouds begin rolling their way back in. Momoka's protected from the weather by an umbrella, and she's wearing her florist's gear.

"Oh, nice show," she says.

If Moral recognises the compliment, his disguise gives no indication of it. He pockets the phone still in his hand. The expression on Superintendent Art's face is genuine enough to be considered mournful.

There's no satisfaction without the sight of bullets in slow motion, without blood, and without a beloved golden revolver.

Moral fingers the peace symbol at the body's neck, then snaps the cord keeping it attached. He fetches his own umbrella and stands up again, idly examining the necklace hanging from his hand. Then, the necklace is tucked into the same pocket the phone is in, and the umbrella is flicked open.

"I was afraid you wouldn't be able to view it properly," Moral replies.

There's a movement from the bar which fences the swings.

"You saying I can't handle this Minimum?" says the teenager sitting on it. He's wearing a clear raincoat over a teal uniform, and a scowl that could cleave a melon in two. His complexion is very pale, and slightly green.

"Of course not, Kojima," says Moral. "The Moment Minimum really is exquisite... trapping two targets in an instance, preventing awareness of the outside world, and withholding their words from those outside save for a designated spectator – to master it so well in such a short amount of time makes me glad I chose you."

Kojima's eyes flash between Moral and Momoka quickly. "Cool. So I can go now, right? You don't need me any more, boss?"

"Go ahead," says Moral. "Make sure you get that revenge you wanted, okay?"

"Hah. That Theo won't know what hit him."

And with those parting words, Kojima picks himself up before running away.

Momoka circles around the body on the ground, staring. There's no doubt she's arranged for a fake ambulance to be on its way.

"I hope you're aware how difficult it is to dispose of these," says Momoka.

"Thank you very much for all your assistance."

"It's no trouble." She looks up, then gestures across her nose. "You have some mud here."

_More than that_, Moral thinks, because there's so much water sogging up his clothes that he may as well have cannonballed into a swimming pool. The result of slight overconfidence, but nothing too dreadful – he'll simply need to obtain more rapid means of killing in the future.

He dips his umbrella to hide his face. It's raised again by a second Gasquet a moment later; Minimum re-activation is enough to withhold any damage to his image from perceptions other than his own.

Moral looks forward to a very long, very hot bath once he gets home. Maybe even scented. Shame Nice wouldn't be there with him. The black cosmos are in bloom.

"I assume you're tying up his loose ends?" says Momoka.

"In part, yes."

"Well, Greenland is quite the cool destination this time of year."

"...After all of Mao's help ensuring this disguise is impenetrable?" asks Moral. "I have a better idea. A game in which the cat is searching for its mouse, never knowing the mouse is actually the lion directly next door – wouldn't that be more fun than simply ignoring who it is that Nice has latched onto so closely?"

"That could potentially mean a long time undercover. You'll put the plans for your new world on hold?"

"Not on hold, never for Nice," says Moral. "Simply... _slowed_."

Momoka looks down to the body, then up to Moral's appearance again. "In any case, I look forward to it. Make sure you stay... entertaining."

* * *

"Thanks for your input," says Nice.

His so-called 'theoretical experiment' has left Art both frowning and convinced that Nice lives his life determined to be confusing. By the time Art spots the police building approaching over the nearby rooftops, he realises that, at least for a moment, he'd also forgotten the reason for his excursion entirely.

Disappointing.

Art checks his watch. It's pushing nearly three hours since he's left. He also checks his phone; Gasquet'd called earlier, but there had only been silence across the line until Gasquet'd hung up. Pocket dialling, Nice had suggested.

If it's urgent, Gasquet will call him again.

"Is that all?" Art asks.

"Pretty much, yeah," says Nice. "Okay. Your guy is one James Shunsuke."

Art reaches into his pocket for a notepad. "James..."

"Shunsuke. _Cheek bone._ Twenty-nine, film maker, that's all I've got on him for now."

The characters are written down. "Thank you," says Art. "Again, please do make sure you don't do this in the future, Nice. Next time you'll definitely be charged with suppressing evidence, alright?"

There's no reply. It's not raining enough for the umbrella to be necessary, so it takes a moment before Art realises that Nice is no longer walking next to him; he'd stopped a few steps away.

"...Nice?"

"Y-yeah," says Nice. He quickly closes the distance between them. "Yeah. Sure."

Art watches him. Nice raises an arm to scratch behind an ear. He isn't wearing his earphones; It's the first time Art notices they're missing.

"Is everything alright?" says Art.

"Yeah. I'm just – I was just surprised."

"By what?"

"The way you say my name, I guess."

"Nice?" repeats Art, concentrating. "Nice... no, I don't quite hear anything."

Nice shrugs.

"It's probably just because you haven't used it before. Anyway, want to do this again?" he adds, very obviously changing the subject. Art opens his mouth; Nice hurriedly waves his arms, anticipating Art's comment that Nice had just agreed otherwise. "No, no, I mean, the whole meeting up thing but _not_ to do with your work. We can discuss things."

"Discuss...?"

"...Cases? Uh. Wait, I mean—"

Nice is very quickly interrupted when it begins to rain, very heavily and all at once, completely out of nowhere. He fumbles with his umbrella for a second, but even that is a second too long. Art chooses to run to the safety of the nearest shelter instead.

By the time he's joined by Nice, Art's fringe is stuck to his forehead. He's sure the rest of his hair is equally as drowned-cat – until the umbrella lifts enough to reveal Nice's head. Half of Nice's hair is torn between drooping, the other half valiantly attempts to stay up against Nature's will, and all of it convinces Art that his own hair is fine.

Nice had actually lifted the umbrella to look at the sky. He deadpans. "What."

A large raindrop chooses that moment to trickle out of Nice's hair, down his brow, then slide off his nose. The absurdity of the entire situation has Art stifle a chuckle.

"You don't look any better," Nice tells him.

"I wonder if you can make that comment after you've seen yourself first," Art replies. "There's nothing reflective here, unless you'd rather continue walking...?"

They take fifteen steps until they reach a glass-walled shopfront, entirely uninterested in the products being sold, staring at nothing but their reflections.

"...Okay," says Nice. "You win, Superintendent. Until next time. So, you in?"

"In what?"

"Meeting again later. This was my offer. Forget what I said earlier. You get to pick what time and whatever, and I'll give you info and stuff in return."

"And Mao won't mind?"

"Mao..." Nice pauses. "Mao's cool. But you're fun. He'll understand."

It occurs to Art that there is a person Nice doesn't mention as often.

"What about Hajime?" asks Art.

"What about her?" says Nice. "I don't bother her much. She does her own thing. What do you think?"

"I'll have to think about it."

"No problem."

Nice stops and holds the umbrella's handle toward Art. The two of them are under an overhang, so there's no risk of being rained on, but it's the last overhang until the police building's front doors.

"Here," says Nice. "You'll need it."

Art stares. "You aren't coming?"

"...No. I don't want to be picked up on camera."

"There are cameras here."

"It's different," Nice replies. "I'd give you my number, but I change it every month, so can I have yours?"

"Why?"

"I was thinking of calling you so you know where to find me. It's easier if you know you gave it—oh, forget it."

Nice pulls out a mobile phone. He inputs a string of numbers that Art knows _very_ well, and within moments Art's own phone begins to ring.

"Where did you—" says Art.

"I copied your business card," says Nice, and hangs up so that his number is in Art's system.

"I really should arrest you."

"The more you say that, the more I don't believe you're going to do it."

"Would you like to try, Nice?"

"...Sorry."

Nice glances away and scratches his cheek; Art finds himself surprised. Nice _had_ sounded sorry, a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Is there anything else I should know?" asks Art.

There's an uncomfortably long pause.

"Nice?"

"Okay, okay. I... looked you up two years ago."

"Two years...?"

"I might have followed you for like a week."

Art clenches his fists. Arresting becomes the last thought in his mind; it takes a surprising amount of self-restraint not to punch Nice there and then. "_What?_"

"Were you at Facultas before Skill, and left after?" Nice asks.

"That's irrelevant."

"No, it's not," says Nice. The umbrella is dropped, he leans against it, and spins to look at Art. There's a force in that gaze that snatches Art's comments from his lips, and Nice's presence grows larger; he is the man who dictates, and Art's only role is to listen. "I entered in the same year as Skill, and left at the same time. Back then, I memorised every blueprint, every schedule, every data point, and the habits of every person at Facultas to the point where I could predict with eighty-seven percent accuracy a student's grades before they even took a class or sat an exam. Everyone during the time period I attended – except you."

"You..."

"Didn't I say?" Nice gives Art a lopsided smile. It's a smile that's eating his face alive. "I was a special case. I never saw an 'Art' until he became Superintendent two years ago. Of course, when I found he graduated from Facultas, I knew I had to look into who he was and why his identity was kept from me. It turns out I only knew the students that had a Minimum."

"Yet you knew Skill," says Art.

"I didn't," says Nice. "He died before they found it. I didn't know he existed until I researched you."

Art realises he's forgotten to breathe. He reminds himself to breathe some more.

"I find all of that hard to believe," he says.

Is it his imagination when Nice flinches?

"What?" says Nice.

"It's impossible. Facultas is too under-funded for any special streams. It's impossible to create such accurate models without an Analysis Minimum. It's also impossible to finish learning two natural languages given the Academy's workload without having completed the final four years—"

"Three languages."

"Three?"

"You forgot the first-year mandatory. English."

"Exactly my point," says Art, thinking '_three?_' when only two are part of the curriculum. "Furthermore, everybody at Facultas knew of me." It's hard to go unnoticed in a world of Minimum without one of his own. "I should arrest you right now."

"So you believed I stalked you, but you don't believe everything else?" asks Nice.

"I'm not sure what I believe."

Nice closes his eyes. He stills. He takes a deep breath. It's a breath so deep his lungs should not be able to contain it within their confines.

"Fine," he says. "Okay. That's fine. I won't call or bother you again. You can keep my number, it's still useful for a few more weeks. And here," Nice extends the umbrella. "You can have this, too."

"Nice—"

Nice's expression is hard. He puts on his earphones. "You need it more. I take it by how you'd used 'should' that you aren't going to arrest me today?"

"...I'm not."

A silent nod. "Thanks. Goodbye."

Art had been concentrating for a Minimum's activation. He receives a blindingly intense rainbow of light for his efforts; the brightest activation he's ever seen. By the time his vision returns to normal, there's nothing but empty air.

It's easier to convince himself that Nice hadn't flinched, than it is to convince himself that Nice's eyes were only reflecting the falling rain.

* * *

By the time Art returns, Gasquet is gone.

He'd checked the archives, first, as that's where his partner had said he'd be, but it's unsurprising when they're empty. Gasquet, too, is not in either of their offices, nor is he in the foyer, nor the smokeroom. Searching anywhere more than that in such a large building is a waste of time when the only thing he wants to do is apologise for being tardy.

Art chooses to skip lunch and heads to his office to get some work done instead. There's a note beneath Inspector Nagaki's report on the crime scene.

_Art,_

_Won't be here, looking into a lead. Text, don't call._

_Chinen's report came in. There was nothing to suggest her motive was anything other than revenge. Nothing suspicious was found at her place either._

_Don't worry, concentrate on the current case _– _I filed it for you._

— _Gasquet_

Art smiles. He sends a text to Gasquet with _James Shunsuke_ as the victim's name, a thank you message for his consideration, and wishes of luck on his lead. He then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing himself to forget all the memories he has of Nice and their conversations, and—

After almost four hours, when Art finally rises for a break, he sees the missed call in his phone history and ignores it, despite the shadow of a memory making itself known –

[ _Harm to you is the last thing I have in mind._ ]

It's Nice's number.

Art won't be needing it.

Nice is a mystery who Art will never meet again.

* * *

**/TBC/**

* * *

_(( *runs and hides* ))_


End file.
